Forget Your Yesterday
by Darkfangz13
Summary: When Lestrade is shot while chasing down a suspect, nobody expects him to wake up and not know who they are. His amnesia sets him back about twenty years, before he even became a detective. Now, he has to come to terms with the man he grew to become, the people whose lives he influences, the job he worked for, and the man he... loved?
1. Prologue

Forget Your Yesterday  


Prologue

"Pick me up at five o'clock at the Diogenes Club." Lestrade said as he grabbed his coat and keys on his way out to work. "And not a second later. You had better not leave me hanging, Mycroft, I can't stand those buggers! They try to get security to remove me from the premises every single time!"

"That is because you always disregard the rules of the Club." Mycroft returned good-naturedly, flipping through the morning newspaper to the business section.

Not like he was hoping for new information. He knew it all already. It was just fun to point and laugh at the funny little people scurrying about their business.

"It's not my fault that I talk. That's what happens when people come together in a communal area!" Lestrade complained. "I'd go so far as to say it's the polite thing to do!"

"Coffee's on the table." Mycroft reminded off-handedly and Lestrade took the stiff paper cup.

Lestrade lifted it, took a swig, and made an indecent little noise of pleasure. "Oh, that's good." he moaned happily. "Well, I'm off." He announced as he rounded the dining table, pecking Mycroft on the temple. "See you at five."

"I will be there." Mycroft smiled back, not looking up from the paper.

He heard the front door open and close.

* * *

"Good morning." Donovan greeted as her boss walked into his office.

"Morning." Lestrade grunted back around his cup of coffee. "Got anything?"

"Well we-..." All coherent thought leapt out of the window as Lestrade walked past and the sergeant caught a whiff of his glorious coffee. "Oh God, what is that? Is that from the boyfriend?" Donovan complained.

Lestrade had mercy and poured a little for her into an empty coffee cup. "It's good, isn't it?"

Donovan fairly snatched the small offering and downed it. "Mmm, you lucky bastard." she said. "I'd date him for the coffee alone. I'd even put up with the CCTV cameras. Where does he get this coffee? I want some!"

"You should be so lucky." Lestrade snorted back with a grin.

"How long's it been?" Donovan asked. "Three years?"

Lestrade hummed, nodding. He had met Sherlock five years ago, Mycroft only a few days after his brother. It had taken a grueling two years for them to work past their differences before they finally fought down their mutual pig-headedness and came to terms with their equally mutual attraction and began dating.

Tonight marked their second anniversary.

"Earth to boss." Donovan snapped her fingers in front of Lestrade's face, startling him. "It's nice to know you two are still going steady after three years, but we've got work to do and I can't stand your faraway, longing looks."

Lestrade snorted. "You're just jealous because you're fed up with Anderson."

"Actually, I broke up with him last week."

"Is this going to be a problem?"

"Probably not."

"Then good for you."

"We've got a murder to investigate, by the way." Donovan swiftly changed the subject. "You want to just continue talking about our love-lives and coffee, or do you want to catch a bastard with me?"

"Does anyone _ever_ turn down a suggestion like that?" Lestrade smirked.

"Not that I know of, Sir." Donovan replied with a shrug.

* * *

"Aaron Garfield, this is the police!" Lestrade called as he pounded on the door of the small flat. "We have a warrant for your arrest. Open up!"

The door flew open, hitting Lestrade and knocking him a few steps backward, Garfield dashed out.

"Stop!" Donovan yelled, running after him. Lestrade steadied himself and also set chase.

Aaron Garfield was a young, athletic man who was fast on his feet. But, he was also a man who had been charged with murder and two of Scotland Yard's most tenacious just happened to be on the case.

It was bad luck for him.

Garfield ran out across the street, causing a passing car to swerve and skid in the Winter slush. Donovan, who had been following, launched herself over the hood and after their killer without missing a beat.

Lestrade ran by with shouts of apology to the driver and ran around the car.

Garfield had the misfortune to glance behind him at his pursuers just in time to trip over the legs of a homeless man sitting on the pavement and stumbled.

Donovan was onto him in a heartbeat. She grabbed his shoulder and snapped a cuff onto his left hand. "Aaron Garfield, you are under arrest-..."

Garfield thrashed as Donovan reached for his free hand and knocked the woman onto her arse. Donovan tried to keep her grip on him, but he slipped away.

"Oh, bastard!" the sergeant grunted as Garfield took off again.

Lestrade flew past her without even inquiring about any injuries. She was tough and angry. He knew she could handle herself.

He chased Garfield down into a back alley and cornered him into a dead-end. "It's over, Garfield." he panted, slightly out of breath. "Now come quietly and-..."

**_Bang!_**

Usually, in the movies, getting shot was a little like getting rammed by a train, all exploding gore and flailing limbs, body lifted off the ground and thrown backwards. In real life, however, Lestrade hardly noticed what had happened.

He heard the shot. He felt a punch in his torso. And he sat straight down on his heels, knees knocking hard into the ground.

"Oh God...!" Garfield gasped, dropping his gun and running.

Lestrade looked down and saw a bloody hole in his chest. The pain assaulted his senses a moment later.

"Ah, fuck!" he grunted, covering the wound with his hand. His vision swam and he collapsed onto his side, head slamming hard onto the icy pavement, vision greying.

Then, it occurred to him. Donovan had been left behind in the chase. What if she didn't find him? He could die at this rate. That was... decidedly not a good thing.

He needed his phone.

His arm wouldn't get it for him.

What if he died?

He didn't want to die in some isolated back alley.

Shit, what would Sherlock say?

He'd probably scoff at him for his incompetence.

And then John would be left to deal with the two Holmeses by himself.

That wasn't a very good idea either.

Because, despite both Holmes' skills and influence, John was the only of the three who personally owned a gun.

And if push came to shove, he wouldn't be afraid to use it.

And then he'd definitely go to jail and never see daylight again.

And what would Mycroft do?

_Shit._

He was starting to hyperventilate.

He was scared.

There were so many things he wanted to do.

So many things he failed to say.

He wanted to see Mycroft.

... And that stray cat that hung around his flat.

Who would feed her?

Priorities. Once upon a time, Lestrade had them.

"Shit-..." Lestrade finally got his hand to move, fingers rasping over the hard ground and grabbed his phone, dialing Donovan.

The dial tone rang for a few moments before Donovan picked up. _"Sir? Where are you? I lost you and Garfield."_

Lestrade opened his mouth, but could only manage a weak wheeze.

_"Sir? Sir!"_

And then he passed out.

* * *

Mycroft walked out into the main sitting room of the Diogenes Club and looked around for Lestrade. But he was nowhere in sight. Mycroft sighed silently and glanced at his watch.

Five o'clock. Meeting time.

Mycroft frowned. Maybe Lestrade was caught up in an investigation and was running late? It was not the first time important engagements were forgotten in the face of a crucial break in a case.

He raised his hand to get the attention of one of the staff and wrote 'Gregory Lestrade' on a piece of paper before showing it to the man. The man glanced at it professionally and shook his head apologetically.

He had not seen Gregory Lestrade.

Mycroft waved him off dismissively and sat down in a plush armchair by the window.

He waited for a long time.

His phone buzzed efficiently with a text message and Mycroft pulled it out.

_Gregory Lestrade. Shot chasing suspect. In ambulance now. -A_

Mycroft stood swiftly and strode out of the Diogenes Club to find a car waiting for him. He stepped inside. "Hospital, please." he said.

His driver nodded grimly and pulled out onto the street.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One  


He could feel the surface he was on, moving. His eyes slid open sluggishly and he could see smudged and foggy lights passing swiftly over his head.

Or was it just _him_ moving swiftly under_ them_?

He turned his head a little and saw a man in scrubs and a mask over his face barking out orders urgently to other people as he and two others rolled the gurney Lestrade was lying on into the operating theater.

Oh, so it _was_ him moving.

He tried to lift his hand to get the man's attention, but his arm only twitched and fell off the flat surface. Someone grabbed his arm and placed it back at his side.

The air was cold... so cold. Lestrade choked on an inhale and coughed. Someone else placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

Weak and dizzy, Lestrade's head rolled to the side and he caught a glimpse of his chest.

It was covered in red.

He heard something bang nearby his head and saw the swinging doors of the operating theater close behind them.

And then he passed out again.

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit!" Donovan cursed under her breath as she drove madly to the hospital. She banged her hand on the steering wheel as traffic refused to part for her.

It was times like this that she hated. They made her feel so useless.

Her phone rang and she declined the call.

She needed to get to the hospital to see her partner, no distractions.

"Fuck!"

She thought that she must be in shock.

She closed her eyes briefly and her mind flashed back to that back alley and finding Lestrade lying motionless on the ground after that strange call.

For a heart stopping moment, she had thought he was dead.

So yes... she was in shock.

She finally reached the hospital and jumped out.

* * *

_"What?"_ Donovan's voice was strained and cold when she finally picked up on Sherlock's third ring.

Sherlock's eyebrows jumped a little. "Where is Lestrade? He's not answering my texts and he's not picking up his phone." he said.

_"He can't take the call."_ Donovan said flatly. _"He's at the hospital."_

"Then, tell him to step out and take the call!" Sherlock snapped, assuming Lestrade was talking to a victim or witness of a case. "He's the one who's been waiting on it."

_"I said, he can't take the bloody call!"_ Donovan yelled. _"Now sod off!"_

Sherlock paused at the hysteria in the woman's voice. "What happened?" he demanded. "What's going on?"

_"Lestrade was shot, you bloody git."_ Donovan replied, sounding a little calmer now. _"He's in surgery. You'll forgive him for ignoring your texts."_

And she hung up.

"What was that all about?" John asked as he walked in.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular. "That was Donovan." he said slowly. "Lestrade's been shot."

John sucked in a breath. "Christ...!"

* * *

"Mister Holmes?" a nurse asked, walking up to the man who had just walked in the waiting room.

Donovan glanced up from where she was sitting, elbows on her knees, hands clasped together tightly.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked without even a greeting.

"He's still in surgery." the nurse replied. "Please call if you need anything. We'll inform you of his situation when we know it."

Mycroft nodded stiffly and sat down in a plastic orange chair.

He and Donovan did not speak for a long time.

Finally, Donovan broke the silence. "So, you're the Freak's brother?"

Mycroft glared mildly at her, but nodded. "Yes, I am _Sherlock's_ brother."

Donovan looked slightly abashed. "He talks about you a lot, you know." she said slowly, nodding her head in the direction of the operating theater. "I don't think we've officially met. I'm Sally Donovan."

"Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft replied with a nod. "And he's told me much about you as well."

Donovan scoffed slightly. "More than what's in those files he says you have on everybody?" Her tone was pleasantly unaccusing. More joking and curious.

"Files can tell you only so much about a person on a professional level." Mycroft shrugged. "Gregory knows you much more on a personal level."

"Yeah, okay." Donovan conceded.

They fell into silence again.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson walked into the hospital waiting room just as Lestrade was coming out of surgery.

A doctor was just informing Mycroft and Donovan about Lestrade's situation.

"There was no problem getting the bullet out." he was saying. "There is also the matter of a mild concussion he has fallen victim to, but we doubt much damage has been done. He will make a full recovery. But it will take time."

"Of course." Mycroft nodded.

"Mrs. Hudson." Donovan greeted.

"I heard about what had happened from John." Mrs. Hudson said sadly. "The Inspector is always so polite and friendly when he visits. Always so nice to my boys. I needed to come see that he's going to be alright."

Donovan scowled a little. "Not surprised_ he_ didn't come himself." she murmured to herself under her breath, obviously speaking of Sherlock.

"No, he and John are out apprehending the man who shot the Inspector." Mrs. Hudson said sternly. "They've even commandeered that nice Inspector Dimmock to help them."

Donovan looked away, suitably scolded.

"My brother has never been one to wait around feeling helpless in a situation that he cannot fix." Mycroft remarked with a sigh.

"Sorry." Donovan said quietly.

"May we see him?" Mycroft asked the doctor.

"Of course, but keep in mind that he needs peace and rest." the doctor told them.

They nodded.

* * *

He could hear soft voices murmuring by his bedside, a machine beeping at his other side, and a hand smoothing out the covers on his right leg.

Lestrade tried to open his eyes, but felt like they were glued shut.

"I think I saw his eyes move." Someone said in a hushed whisper. A woman.

"Shall I get the doctor?" Another voice questioned. Another woman, older than the first.

_Who the Hell...?_

Lestrade tried to open his eyes again. The gummy substance that held his eyes shut gave away and his eyes fluttered open.

He found himself staring up at an off-white ceiling, a moment later, a man slid into his line of sight, figure slightly silhouetted against the ceiling light. "Gregory, can you hear me?" the man asked.

He looked like an angel.

"Um-... yeah." Lestrade tried to reply, but it only came out as a sluggish 'Umhmmm'.

The man with auburn hair grimaced a little. "Gregory, if you can hear me, move your hand." he instructed.

"No... too tired." Lestrade complained, still in that weak and incoherent mumbling.

The man stared at him and Lestrade realized that he hadn't understood his grumblings and was still waiting for a response.

He sighed shallowly and wiggled his fingers.

The man let out a great sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God." he said.

A moment later, the man with auburn hair moved aside and an elderly man with greying hair and white coat approached and began shining an obnoxiously bright light into his eyes.

"Hurrgg." Lestrade grunted out irately, trying to turn his head away but the doctor held him steady.

"Patience, Gregory." Said the man with auburn hair although Lestrade could not see him. "Humor us a little."

Finally, the light was gone. Lestrade inwardly heaved a sigh of relief.

* * *

"His responses are fair, not a hundred percent, but not bad." said the doctor, pocketing his penlight. "That's not unusual. There seem to be no problems, but I would advise that he stay a while longer for more extensive tests, you can never be too sure."

Mycroft nodded to him and Donovan poured Lestrade a glass of water. She stuck a straw into the glass and held it to Lestrade's lips. "Here, drink." she said.

Lestrade did, sucking the cool liquid greedily until the glass was half emptied.

Donovan put the glass down on the nightstand and assured Lestrade that she and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be far. Then, she took the elderly woman down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.

She saw that Mycroft would want a moment alone with Lestrade.

Mycroft sat down in the visitor's chair by Lestrade's bedside. "I missed you at the Diogenes Club." he remarked casually.

Lestrade looked at him, a little quizzical.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" Mycroft asked him.

Lestrade began shaking his head, winced, thought better of it, and croaked, "No."

Mycroft noticed that Lestrade did not immediately demand to be told what had happened. He was still in shock. He sighed and patted his hand softly. "Don't worry about it." he said. "Rest."

And he stood up to leave.

Lestrade continued staring at him as if he had never seen him before in his life. "Sorry-..." His voice stopped Mycroft by the door.

Mycroft paused and turned, coat slung over his arm. "Yes, Gregory?"

Lestrade stared searchingly into his face for a long moment.

"Do-..." he paused hesitantly. "Do I know you people?"


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two  


_"What do you mean, 'he's lost his memory'?"_ John's slightly high-pitched voice hissed across the phone line.

"I meant exactly what I said." Mycroft replied flatly. "He has no recollection of who we are."

He glanced back to where Lestrade was sitting up in bed with the doctor, Donovan, and Mrs. Hudson hovering over him. He looked positively terrified of being surrounded by strangers in this situation.

Mycroft silently motioned to Mrs. Hudson to give him a little space and Donovan sat down in the visitor's chair, Mrs. Hudson offering to get them all some tea.

Sherlock was on the phone a second later, having wrangled the phone from John. _"Mycroft."_

"Sherlock." Mycroft greeted back.

_"Is there any chance of him regaining his memory?"_ Sherlock asked.

"That, I cannot say." Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock was silent for a long while._ "I'm coming over."_ he declared suddenly.

"Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea." Mycroft sighed.

_"Why not?"_ Sherlock whined.

"Because you're going to try and put him through a series of ridiculous tests in the name of science and possibly make things worse." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't even try denying it."

There was another long silence. Whether or not his statement was true, it was obvious that Sherlock's brash presence around Lestrade at this moment worried Mycroft.

_"Make him remember."_ Sherlock demanded at length. _"I can't be bothered to break in another Detective Inspector."_

And he hung up.

Mycroft lowered his phone and could imagine, in mind's eye, Sherlock curled up and sulking on his sofa.

He returned his attention to Lestrade just as the man was giving the emergency contact of his parents, both who had died a few years before.

Donovan, who was penning the numbers down, suddenly looked at Mycroft with a pained expression when she recognized the names and numbers, not knowing what to do.

Mycroft walked over to them and nodded Donovan and the doctor off.

Lestrade watched them leave curiously before turning to Mycroft. "What is it?" he asked suspiciously.

Mycroft slowly walked over to the visitor's chair and sat down.

"Mister Holmes?" Lestrade asked, brow furrowed.

Not Mycroft.

Mycroft took in a deep breath and began talking, telling Gregory Lestrade the life story of one of the most brilliant men he had the honour of knowing.

At first, Lestrade looked interested. Then wary. An hour into the story, he began crying.

"Stop- stop..." Lestrade rubbed the corner of his eye when Mycroft told him of the unfortunate car accident that took his parents. "Just, please..."

Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to him. "I understand. It's alright."

Lestrade sniffed and took the handkerchief. "It's just too much right now."

"Alright..." Mycroft patted his knee soothingly. "Alright."

"Can you please..." Lestrade sniffed. "I think I'd like to rest now."

Mycroft nodded silently and stood up, walking toward the door.

"Mister Holmes..." Lestrade's voice stopped him. Mycroft turned back. "Who are you?" Lestrade asked him.

_Who are you, to me, that you know so much about me?_

_A friend._ Mycroft thought. _A lover. A confidant._ "Don't worry yourself about it. Rest." he said slowly.

And he walked out.

Lestrade sat staring at the closed door for a moment or two before lowering his gaze at his hands.

They were larger than he remembered them being. The skin a little more thick, a lot more calloused. Hardened by a life he didn't remember living.

He slowly, hesitantly, raised these hands to his face. He could feel every alien ridge and crevice under his fingertips. The deep smile lines on the corners of his eyes. The massive eyebags under them. The stubble that graced the lower half of his face.

His skin felt a few sizes too big and his body a good several years too heavy.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Come on..." he groaned. "This has got to be a bad dream, or something."

But, deep down, he knew it wasn't.

* * *

"So... I'm a cop?" Donovan almost burst out into hysterical laughter when her boss skeptically asked her that.

"Yes-..." she cleared her throat when her voice came out shriller than expected. "Yes, you are."

"Huh... I wouldn't have guessed." Lestrade grunted to himself. "Does that mean I lied-..." he faltered. "The application-..." he grimaced. "Nevermind."

"Yeah." Donovan mirrored his expression. "I'm just going to ignore the implications of what you were just about to ask me."

Lestrade looked slightly relieved. "Thanks."

They settled down and Donovan began telling him about the many workplace shenanigans that went on. She told him about Dimmock, Anderson, and mainly skirted the issue of Sherlock Holmes... it wasn't her place to say.

"Why not?" Lestrade had wondered aloud.

"I'm biased." Donovan shrugged openly. "I don't like him."

Lestrade tilted his head a little. "Huh... am I on good terms with him?"

A soft smile flitted over Donovan's face. "You pretend to only tolerate him when he's around." she said slowly. "But yeah, you'd back him up a hundred percent. Everybody knows it."

That seemed to confuse Lestrade a little.

"He's kind of an arse, Sir." Donovan explained bluntly. "To everybody."

"I can see how that would be a problem." Lestrade grunted, then he grimaced. "Do you _have_ to call me 'Sir'?"

Donovan snickered and shrugged. "Force of habit."

"And I let it happen?" Lestrade asked her, horrified. "For God's sakes! I have a reputation to keep!"

Donovan burst out laughing.

"So, who's this... Mycroft Holmes fellow, then?" Lestrade asked curiously.

Donovan glanced at him sharply. "He didn't tell you?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Said not to worry about it."

"He's - um - Sherlock's brother." Donovan told him uncomfortably. "I really don't know much about him other than that, and the fact that he's some sort of major spook type."

Lestrade's eyebrows jumped a little. "Spook, as in-...?"

Donovan shrugged. "He doesn't talk about it, and more importantly, you don't either. So I stopped asking."

Lestrade took a deep breath... and let it out. "Holmes... Mycroft Holmes." he said in a low, smooth voice and snickered. "God, his parents really didn't give him a chance, did they?"

Donovan rolled her eyes. "These Holmeses... they're-... well, I never know whether they're geniuses or bonkers. When they open their mouths, nobody really cares much about the names."

Lestrade grimaced. "That bad? Mycroft didn't seem that... odd."

"You're a special case." Donovan shrugged. "He plays nice with you." She thought about it for a moment. "Well, maybe it's because he's secretly a little bit scared of you."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"You told me that the first time you two met, he kidnapped you, and you tased him." Donovan deadpanned.

"I have a taser?" Seemed all Lestrade cared about.

Donovan shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Boys..."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three  


It was a week later that Sherlock and John finally visited the hospital.

Lestrade was down in the lobby with a walking aid and looked grumpy. Anthea was hovering over him with her Blackberry.

"Listen, I'm not a kid. I may have lost my memory, but it's not like I've lost my sanity." Lestrade was telling her. "I can sign myself out if I want to! I'm fine, I can take care of myself, got full-range body movement and all, well, almost."

Anthea peered owlishly over the top of her Blackberry. "And where are you going to go?"

Lestrade opened his mouth, shut it, and remembered that he didn't know where he lived. "Oh, come on!" he complained.

"I'm not going to tell you." Anthea smiled sympathetically.

"Google probably knows." Lestrade pointed out.

"No friend of Mycroft Holmes has his, or her, personal details available to the public." Anthea replied.

"Donovan knows."

"She's sworn to secrecy."

"By who?"

"Mycroft."

"Fucking Hell!"

They lapsed into silence, each staring the other down.

Sherlock and John chose that moment to intrude. "Hey, Greg, how are you holding up?" John asked.

Lestrade looked up quickly, a little startled at the strangers who walked up to them.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" Sherlock scowled at his friend. "He woke up in a hospital with a hole in his chest, surrounded by strangers, told that he is suffering amnesia, his parents are dead, and Mycroft won't let him out of the hospital. How do you think he's doing?"

Lestrade stared at him for a long and thoughtful moment through slightly squinted eyes. "You must be Sherlock." he finally said flatly.

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What lies has Donovan told you about me?"

"Well, she told me you were kind of an arse." Lestrade said bluntly, then he grimaced theatrically. "Ohh, wait. She's not wrong about that." And with a huff, he rearranged his walking aid and slowly laboured off.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused. "What did I say?"

John rolled his eyes toward him. "Sherlock, he just woke up in a hospital with a hole in his chest, surrounded by strangers, told that he is suffering amnesia, his parents are dead, and Mycroft won't let him out of the hospital." John repeated. "... It's kind of a big thing to get used to."

Sherlock blinked at him.

"You're forgetting that Greg doesn't actually remember you, right?" John reminded slowly.

A moment's silence before the Baker Street Duo strolled off after their friend. Anthea, seemingly trusting Lestrade to John's care, walked off.

"Sorry about that, mate." John said.

"Can't say I haven't been warned." Lestrade sighed back, he glanced back at Sherlock. "And for the record? You _are_ an arse."

Sherlock smirked a little. "I can get you out of here." he suggested. "Want to leave?"

"Sherlock, no." John protested.

"No, strange man, I don't want your candy." Lestrade added, deadpanned. "See, I attended that after-school special."

John snorted, amused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do you, or don't you want to get out of here."

"Am I going to end up dead if I say 'yes'?" Lestrade asked suspiciously.

"Whatever Donovan's told you, I'm sure it's exaggerated, or complete lies." Sherlock said emphatically.

Lestrade thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on his walking aid. "Alright. Just as long as my eyeballs don't end up in your microwave."

"Well let's go, then." Sherlock nodded toward the exit and began walking slowly to accommodate their injured friend. "Just know that the fridge is still fair game." he grunted through the corner of his mouth.

Lestrade stared after him, open-mouthed. John dropped his head into his hand.

"Oi! I'll have you know that I'm a copper!" Lestrade called after the consulting detective.

"A nuisance that we are _all_ aware of." Sherlock returned.

Lestrade elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. Hard. And frowned.

Sherlock blinked at him, surprised. "What was that?" he demanded. "Inspector Lestrade never elbows people!"

John rolled his eyes. "The delicate world of Sherlock Holmes, turned upside down by the nudge of an elbow." he muttered.

"I'm not 'Inspector Lestrade'." Lestrade scoffed. "I'm just Greg."

"No, you're not." Sherlock snorted. "You just think you are."

Lestrade's brow furrowed and he frowned, wondering if it was true.

They caught a cab and drove to Baker Street.

* * *

"God, I hope I don't live here." Was the first thing Lestrade said when he walked into Sherlock and John's flat and saw Sherlock's skull.

"Nope, that honour belongs to us." John replied with an abashed grin as he tried futilely to clear the coffee table.

Lestrade leaned forward and squinted his eyes. "Why is the ox head wearing headphones?"

"It's not an ox head." Sherlock snapped, annoyed. "It's a bison skull."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows slowly. "... Headphones?"

"Spur of the moment addition." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sherlock kept stepping on them because he never puts them away." John stage-whispered.

Lestrade opened his mouth as if to say something, looked around at the skull, the stack of mail pinned to the mantlepiece by a knife, the kitchenette/laboratory, and closed his mouth.

"Okay..."

* * *

"So..." Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade flipping through one of the various case files that littered the flat. "We - um - sort of work together on these cases?" Lestrade asked him awkwardly.

"Hardly." Sherlock sniffed imperiously. "I solve the crime, and you stand around to arrest the perpetrator."

Lestrade didn't know how to react. Usually, John would jump in with a dry comment or a swift change of subject, but he was out shopping for groceries and Lestrade was left to hazard the dangers of Sherlock Holmes alone.

"Well, technically we do work toward the same goals, right?" he asked.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him with just a condescending look that made Lestrade slightly uncomfortable. "We work on the same cases, but our objectives are very different."

"I want to close cases, but you want them to drag on?" Lestrade said dryly.

"Did Donovan say so?"

"Not in so many words. It was implied, I'm not an idiot." Lestrade shrugged. "Is it true?"

There was a moment's pause. "A little of both."

"How so?" Lestrade asked him, curious.

"I enjoy a good puzzle, the thrill of the hunt." Sherlock shrugged. "I have been informed that people getting hurt is not a good thing."

"'You've been informed'?" Lestrade repeated dumbly.

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and fell into silence.

Lestrade got up, brewed some tea, and returned to the sitting room. "If you don't mind me asking..." he prompted. "I don't mean any disrespect, or anything, but what did I see in you?"

Sherlock looked at him. "No disrespect, huh?" he said sarcastically, then shrugged. "A means to a quick result." he answered slowly.

"I don't think I'd tolerate you just because of that." Lestrade said.

"Then I am at a loss in what to tell you." Sherlock replied.

Lestrade frowned, leaning back into his seat, and fell silent. After a moment or two, he crossed his arms. Then, he uncrossed them.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Hello?"

Sherlock's eyes were closed and his hands were folded under his chin as the detective roamed his Mind Palace.

"I'm going to leave now." Lestrade threatened.

Sherlock did not reply.

So Lestrade left.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four  


Things were different. Lestrade noted. Or, not really. Things had changed, gradually, over a period of time, but it was not entirely the same London he was accustomed to.

Just a few minor changes, a new shop here, a derelict former haunt there...

Lestrade struggled along with his walking aid.

One thing's for sure, the tiny flat he had once lived in was now a brightly lit McDonald's. Hm... well that's that. The amnesiac detective dragged himself to a phone booth and flipped absently through an old and water-worn phone book.

"'L', 'L', 'Le'..." Lestrade grumbled under his breath as he searched.

No 'Lestrade'.

No friend of Mycroft Holmes had his personal details open to the public.

Lestrade sighed and threw the phone book back into the empty slot by the phone.

What now?

* * *

"I can't believe this." John groaned as he paced in front of Sherlock down at Baker Street. "I can't believe you lost him, Sherlock, what the Hell were you thinking!"

"Was that a rhetorical question, or did you really want an answer?" Sherlock sniped back.

"Mycroft's going to have our heads for this." John declared. "He's going to kill us dead."

"Do stop panicking, John." Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "Obviously, Lestrade has gone to wherever he used to live. You'll find him there."

"Oh, great." John heaved, then paused. "Where did he live?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Do I look like I know?"

"Well, can't you deduce something?" John asked impatiently.

"Lestrade has forgotten everything since before he became a police officer." Sherlock said slowly. "I only knew him from when he was a Sergeant. Everything before that is considered irrelevant."

"Meaning, you don't know." John said.

Sherlock sent him a dark look from under his fringe, but did not deny it.

"Great." John went back to pacing. "Mycroft's going to kill us."

* * *

"You lost him?" Mycroft said slowly, voice level, too calm.

_"Um - yeah."_ John grimaced on the other end of the line.

"And how did this happen?" Mycroft questioned.

_"I was out shopping, Sherlock was in his Mind Palace, and Greg just walked out."_ John said quietly, obviously berating himself for lowering his guard.

"Don't worry, I thought something like this might happen." Mycroft sighed. "I took the liberty of having Anthea track his movements."

_"Of course you did."_ John said, trying hard to conceal the dryness of his tone, and failing.

"I will have someone pick him up." Mycroft told him and hung up.

He frowned a little and faced his computer. A few swift depressing of keys pulled up Anthea's GPS signal. He frowned harder.

"Well, this is interesting..."

* * *

"Sir?" Donovan jumped up from her desk as Lestrade wandered in, one hand in his pocket, trying to act like he really knew what he was doing at the New Scotland Yard, eyes roving all over the place. "Lestrade, what are you doing here?"

Lestrade looked at her, eyes bright in a mixture of nervousness and boy-caught-with-hand-in-cookie-jar. "Um, sorry... shouldn't I have?"

She couldn't help but feel sorry for him. This was all very new and exciting for him, it showed on his face.

She shook her head. "No just, come with me, okay?"

Lestrade nodded with a lopsided grin and followed her into his office. "Hey, look at that." he said when he caught sight of a plain metal nameplate on his desk. He pointed at it vaguely with his walking aid. "Detective Inspector Lestrade." he read out.

He grinned brightly, looking both mortified and pleased.

Donovan smiled back and laughed. "Yeah, that would be you." She lowered the blinds on the transparent glass walls and closed the office door behind them. "What happened? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah." Lestrade shrugged. "Anthea wouldn't tell me where I lived because she didn't want me going along by myself. And then Sherlock and John showed up and I tagged along with them to their flat in Baker Street. And then Sherlock zoned out so I left. And then I tried to go home but found out that it turned into a McDonald's." Lestrade recounted his tales. "And I couldn't find my phone number in any phone book so I decided to try dropping by here."

"Ah..." Donovan trailed off. "You probably shouldn't have wandered off. Someone must be looking for you."

"I told Sherlock!" Lestrade protested. "It's not my fault he wasn't listening!"

Donovan snorted. "Just hold on, I'm calling John."

She rounded behind Lestrade's desk and dialed John's number on the desk phone.

Lestrade just watched her interestedly.

"Hello? Dr. Watson? Yes, it's me, Donovan." Donovan said to John. "Yes, Lestrade's here. Don't worry about him, he's alright. What? He's sending someone down here?" Donovan placed a hand on her hip and cocked it out as she spoke to John. "Well, bloody Hell! Tell his people to wait outside! I'm not catering to any workplace gossip about why Holmes is poking around here."

A few moments later, she hung up and turned to Lestrade.

"Was John mad?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, he's furious with you for walking out, let me tell you." Donovan smirked. "You're in for it now, Sir."

"Please, can we not with the 'Sir'?" Lestrade groaned.

"Habit, sorry." Donovan grimaced at her boss's discomfort. "Anyway, the Freak's brother is sending one of his minions to pick you up."

"Why do you call him 'the Freak'?" Lestrade asked her.

Donovan shrugged. "Because I don't like him." she replied simply.

"He's really kind of-..." Lestrade scrunched up his nose as he searched for a word. "... Blah."

Donovan couldn't stifle a snort of amusement fast enough. "Oh, um... 'blah', huh?" she smiled behind a hand.

"Well, he's just so rude!" Lestrade complained. "Mind, I know a lot of rude people, but he's a different kind."

"A different kind of rude?" Donovan raised her eyebrows and drawled.

"He doesn't mean to be rude... most of the time. How do I say this? He's socially retarded, as horrible as that makes me sound. Does that make me sound horrid? It does, doesn't it? Now I'm turning into the-..." Lestrade trailed off and grimaced. "I don't particularly like being around people I'm not sure I like. And I'm not sure I like him. Why did you say I liked him?" he complained.

Donovan smiled bitterly. "Because you do."

"I don't like this." Lestrade said decisively. "I don't understand me."

Donovan fell silent, not knowing what to say to him.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five  


Anthea was waiting outside NSY by the time Donovan led Lestrade back out.

The two coppers had talked a little about their partnership, peeked out of the shades on Lestrade's glass-walled office and spied on the other coppers, Donovan telling him who each and everybody was.

Somewhere along the line, Dimmock popped in and Donovan introduced the two men despite the fact that it had been Lestrade who had first introduced Donovan to Dimmock so many years ago.

Dimmock had heard about the situation and was sympathetic, hanging around and throwing a few bits of information their way when Lestrade pointed out someone and asked to know who that person was.

It felt surreal. These were people who Lestrade knew and worked with everyday before his injury. Most often, Donovan and Dimmock were telling him things that_ he_ had told _them_ before.

When they left him with Anthea, the two cops promised to keep tabs on him in his sick leave.

Lestrade slumped into the back seat of Mycroft's car and fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted and a little overwhelmed with all the old/new things he was learning about himself.

Anthea dropped him off at his own flat. Mycroft had thought it wiser since Lestrade practically lived with him, but now didn't remember who he was. This arrangement would save them all from uncomfortable questions.

Anthea accompanied him inside and the two of them got Chinese take out for dinner.

Naturally, the first thing Lestrade did after being fed was look through his flat, poking around in his closets and cupboards.

He found a box of photographs in the back of a storage closet and dumped the contents out on the floor of his sitting room where he set about separating the pictures he remembered taking and the ones he had no recollection of.

"I don't remember this." Lestrade said, sliding a photo of himself in the police academy to Anthea over the coffee table. Anthea, who was sitting on the sofa as Lestrade sat on the floor, picked it up and looked at it. Lestrade pointed. "Look, that's Dimmock."

"So it is." Anthea hummed politely.

Lestrade didn't really care if Anthea learned these things about him, and Anthea didn't really care to know. Both knew this happened only because Lestrade felt the need to say something and he didn't want to talk aloud to himself and risk sounding like a madman.

They continued on with this for some time.

"This must be Donovan's place... Christmas?"

"I think so."

"New Years. Three years ago, see the year?"

"I see it."

"Is this my pet? I didn't know I had a cat. I didn't see it."

"It was a stray that you sometimes fed."

"How do you know?"

Lestrade didn't immediately get a straightforward answer for questions like that. Mostly because Anthea didn't have the heart to tell him that he usually had 24/7 surveillance on him.

When he first saw the picture he came across of Sherlock, Lestrade just stared at it for a long moment as if trying to figure out how the crazy detective fitted into his life.

In the picture, Sherlock's face was thin and sallow, eye sockets sunken in, skin pale. He looked like a drug addict. Lestrade grimaced. "He doesn't look like that now." he remarked.

"No. He doesn't." Anthea replied neutrally, as always.

And, try as he might, Lestrade couldn't find another picture of Sherlock in his collection.

"He doesn't like being photographed very much, despite Sherlock's fame." Anthea told him. "Neither Holmes does. It was a rare one you got."

Lestrade sighed and dropped his head on the coffee table. "God, I don't remember any of this. Shouldn't I start remembering something? That's what usually happens in the movies."

Anthea offered him a sympathetic look.

* * *

Lestrade woke up with a severe pain in his neck and the sun gleaming brightly through the windows.

He groaned. "Oh, God..."

He straightened from where he had been propped up at the coffee table and rolled his neck and shoulders, arching his back and stretching, arms raised overhead, coaxing a few satisfying pops out of it.

That was when a light blanket that Lestrade had not noticed before, slid off his shoulders.

Lestrade let out a curious noise and picked it up. "Anthea?" he called out as he staggered to his feet.

He found Anthea in the kitchen looking well rested and impeccable as always, not a hair out of place while Lestrade's was sticking up in all directions. "Good morning." Anthea greeted as she brewed a pot of coffee.

"Good mor-..." Lestrade smelled the coffee and his brain derailed. "Christ, is that coffee?"

Anthea nodded and offered him a mug. "I was informed that you were well addicted to the stuff."

"Am I? God, I must be." Lestrade took a gulp and hummed appreciatively. "Yup. Addicted. Wow, I didn't used to be..." he took another gulp. And then another.

And then his mug was empty. Anthea thoughtfully refilled it.

Coffee addiction, huh...

* * *

While looking through Lestrade's pictures, it became evident that Lestrade's memory had regressed to when he had been in his late twenties. Sherlock immediately demanded the freedom to experiment on various things that neither John nor Mycroft would allow and the consulting detective was sulking.

Lestrade was back in Baker Street as Anthea had other important work to do for Mycroft and everyone felt better if they had someone keeping an eye on Lestrade at least until his injuries healed completely.

Just so long as they didn't lose track of him again.

Of course, Lestrade protested this saying that he was mentally nearly thirty and already a full-fledged adult who could look after himself.

At which John replied reasonably, "Sherlock's almost _forty_ and we don't trust him alone."

Which set off another barrage of Sherlock's excited ramblings because, "Lestrade, how does it feel to be the youngest?"

To which Lestrade did not dignify a reply.

* * *

John came home from work at the clinic later that day to hear the sound of a piano being played inside 221 Baker Street.

He slipped quietly through the front door and was slightly surprised to hear that the music was coming from Mrs. Hudson's flat, not his and Sherlock's.

He knocked softly on Mrs. Hudson's door and the music stopped.

A moment later, Mrs. Hudson opened up. "Oh, John, you're home!" she greeted with a smile. "Come around for a cuppa?" she asked hopefully.

"That would be lovely, thanks." John smiled back and followed her inside to the kitchen.

He heard the piano start up again slowly, notes choppy and sometimes off key. A short, embarrassed laugh wafted out of the back rooms at a particularly horrid mistake and John realized with a shock that the laugh belonged to Lestrade. "Oh, Christ, that's not how it goes..." he heard the cop say to himself.

"I didn't know you had a piano." John said to Mrs. Hudson as he took the cup offered to him.

"Oh, I haven't played in years." Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly. "Me and the husband used to play occasionally, never played it since he left me."

Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 began slowly and John recognized the tune. He listened attentively as he drank his tea. The notes growing smoother as the player regained confidence.

"I had no idea he could play." John said slowly.

"Neither did I." Mrs. Hudson giggled, pleased. "But he's rather good at it, isn't he?"

"Yes." John agreed. "He is."

Lestrade played like a colt learning to walk. Trilling sometimes, faltering at some keys, making mistakes, but always so damnably earnest. Just like the man playing.

Suddenly, John was overcome with a sense of intruding on some terribly intimate part of his friend like some emotional voyeur and uncomfortably wondered if he should leave.

Mrs. Hudson caught his gaze and smiled, shaking her head. So he stayed until the piece was played out till the end.

Lestrade wandered into the kitchen a few moments later. "Mrs. Hudson!" he said complainingly. "I was wondering where you went, you just got up and disappeared!"

"John was at the door, dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled back warmly. "Tea?"

"Yes, please." Lestrade grinned and noticed John for the first time. "Christ, were you here the whole time?"

"Through Chopin, yeah." John told him meekly.

"God, that must've been horrible." Lestrade groaned, growing a mild shade of red. "I haven't played in years... which means I probably haven't played for maybe thirty years, or so?"

"You were good." John said encouragingly.

"Eh..." Lestrade extended his hand, palm turned downward and wiggled in it a 'so-so' gesture. "I was never very good at it. How was work?"

"Good." John smiled and told them little anecdotes about his day.

He got the feeling that Lestrade felt self-conscious about his memory loss and was deliberately steering the conversations away from the topic every time it came up.

So he indulged him.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six  


"Sir?" Anthea said when she saw Mycroft in his home office, standing at the window, one hand holding the curtain open.

Mycroft startled a bit and let the drape fall as he turned. "Yes, Anthea?"

"What are you doing here?" Anthea asked her boss as she crossed the room to stand beside him.

Both turned and looked out of the window to where Lestrade was cheerfully assisting Mrs. Hudson in Mycroft's garden.

"Being afraid." Mycroft replied at length.

It was oddly true.

"What if he never remembers?" Mycroft said as he watched his amnesiac lover tromp around in the dirt, hands and feet enclosed in those ridiculous gardening boots and gloves. "What if he changes? Grows into someone different?"

Lestrade dug a shovel deep into a patch of soil and levered it hard, expecting resistance. Unfortunately for him, the soil was soft and easily manipulated, sending a dollop of dirt flying and Lestrade sprawling.

The man looked stunned, sat arse in the mud, then burst out laughing at himself. Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth with a delicately gloved hand and giggled.

"What if he's not the man I fell in love with?"

Anthea was quiet for a long moment, searching hard for an answer.

Then, Lestrade noticed them and glanced around as if making sure they were both watching him before tentatively waving and grinning. Then, he spread his arms, palms turned upward and mouthed 'What?'

Mycroft smiled back and waved to say 'Everything's fine'.

Lestrade shrugged. 'If you say so.'

Anthea watched the silent exchange and smiled mysteriously.

"Don't worry, Sir." she said. "I think everything will be alright."

Mycroft looked at her. "I do hope so."

* * *

"So..." Lestrade prompted later that day when Mrs. Hudson went out shopping. "Tell me about yourself, Mister Holmes."

Mycroft looked up from his afternoon tea. "First, I'd like to tell you that it's just Mycroft." he replied, sipping his tea conservatively.

Lestrade half-smiled. "Okay." He grabbed a jammy dodger and bit into it. "So, just-Mycroft, tell me about yourself."

"I..." Mycroft tapped a finger on the armrest of his chair. "Hm."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Oh. I understand you so much better now." he deadpanned.

Mycroft let out a huffy laugh. "Let me get to it, Gregory." he admonished. "I don't know what to tell you. I honestly don't know where to begin."

"What's your name?" Lestrade grinned. "That's always a good place to start getting to know a person."

"My name is Mycroft Edwin Holmes." Mycroft recited. "Although, you already knew that."

"When's your birthday?"

"October 17th, 1966." was the reply.

"What's your favorite colour?" came the next question.

Mycroft paused. "Brown." he finally decided.

_Brown like your eyes._

"Brown..." Lestrade echoed, a thoughtful look at Mycroft. "Okay, Tyrannosaurus or Stegosaurus?"

Mycroft blinked at the odd question, but responded without missing a beat. "Neither. Velociraptor." he said. "I detest those great, hulking behemoths."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Nice choice."

They spent a dreadful amount of time discussing ancient creatures, precious time that should've been sacrificed to work, but Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

Also, Lestrade's vast knowledge of dinosaurs betrayed his making Anderson's acquaintance. Sherlock would be infuriated.

But, Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to mind that either.

* * *

"Gregory." Mycroft said levelly when he walked into the kitchen to see the amnesiac detective chewing on some horrific-looking sustenance. "What is that?"

Lestrade looked at the thing in his hand. "It's a sandwich, what does it look like?" he said, one cheek stuffed like a hamster.

Mycroft was torn between telling him off about speaking with his mouth full and just letting him do it, for reasons.

"There's peanut butter." Lestrade opened his folded piece of bread. "And olives in it." He pointed at the sliced olives. "And mayonnaise."

Mycroft wrinkled his noise and let out a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Lestrade looked around. "There's a dying goat somewhere in here." he said joked flatly.

"Gregory..." Mycroft groaned.

"What?"

"That's..." Mycroft fruitlessly searched for a non-insulting word to describe... _this_. "That's disgusting." he said in defeat.

"How prejudiced of you, Mycroft." Lestrade said, taking another large bite and holding it out to him. "Don't knock it until you've tried it." he said, voice slightly muffled behind his bite.

A loose piece of olive fell out of the sandwich and splattered the hardwood floor between their feet with peanut butter and mayonnaise.

Both stared at it for a mortified second or two.

Then, Lestrade looked at his sandwich. "You're not helping your case." he said to it as if it could hear him and adjust its attitude.

"I think I'll pass, thanks." Mycroft said decisively, holding back a laugh. "What's for dinner, anyway?"

Lestrade picked up his olive with a tissue and tossed it into the trash. "Dunno. Anthea went off to do something, somewhere, for someone. She was very mysterious about it." He shrugged. "She told me to eat whatever's in the fridge." He held up what was left of his food. "Sandwich?"

Mycroft gave a wincing smile. "No thanks. What else is in the refrigerator?"

"Dunno." Lestrade hummed and opened the fridge.

The light came on inside and Mycroft joined Lestrade at his side. Both stared for a moment or two as people are wont to do in front of refrigerators.

"Do you cook?" Lestrade asked him at length.

"Hm." Mycroft grunted. "Not unless need be."

"Want me to make something?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft send him a suspicious look. "Just as long as it's not a peanut butter olive sandwich."

Lestrade smiled back.

"Deal."

* * *

Anthea got back to the house at around seven.

Mrs. Hudson had tutted and fretted about Mycroft not being honest with Lestrade about their relationship and had somehow convinced her to strand the two alone for a while to see how things would pan out.

But, upon considering the fact that neither Mycroft nor Lestrade had liked each other at first meeting, she had turned around and hurried back.

She just hoped that they hadn't killed each other.

"Anthea! He tried to kill me!" was the first exclamation she was bombarded with when she walked into the dining room.

Lestrade, who had made the first comment, was pointing a fork threateningly in Mycroft's direction.

Mycroft huffed back. "Says the man who tried to feed me peanut butter and olives."

The two were eating a simple meal of chicken with a seasoning of peppered butter rosemary and garlic with a salad. Mycroft had a glass of wine and Lestrade had a beer.

It looked wonderful.

"I'm almost sorry to have interrupted you two." Anthea remarked with a smile at Mycroft.

Mycroft glared back from behind his glass of wine. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to Anthea." He growled without much malice. "I'm on to you, my dear."

Anthea just smiled back.

Lestrade looked from Mycroft, to Anthea, and back. "Um..."

"Be a mate and set another place for Anthea, will you, Gregory?" Mycroft suggested smoothly.

Lestrade willingly jumped up and left the dining room.

"You tried to kill him, Sir?" Anthea asked her boss, eyebrow raised delicately.

"I swear, I only turned on the stove." Mycroft huffed.

"Nearly burned the house down." Lestrade put in as he returned with a clean set of dishes and set Anthea's place before disappearing back into the kitchen.

"You exaggerate." Mycroft rolled his eyes at Lestrade's retreating back.

Lestrade returned with a pan and dumped a few pieces of chicken onto Anthea's plate. "He has the ability to burn water." he deadpanned. "I can see why he never cooks."

Mycroft glared, Lestrade raised his eyebrows back, challenging Mycroft to contradict him.

"Wine, Anthea?" Mycroft changed the subject.

"Please."

Lestrade poured her a glass and the three sat down.

And dinner was lovely.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven  


Anthea arrived at Lestrade's flat at three o'clock in the afternoon and let herself in with her personal key.

She pocketed her keys in the doorway and listened for movement. Hearing nothing, she called out. "Lestrade?"

Nothing.

She wandered into the sitting room and saw a pair of socked feet sticking out from between the coffee table and the sofa. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, rushing over.

"Mph... ?" Lestrade's head popped up in all its bird's-nest glory. "Where's the fire?"

Anthea skidded to a halt at the foot of the coffee table. An impressive feat for her heeled shoes. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Lestrade yawned and rubbed a hand through his messy hair and down his cheek sleepily. "Must've fallen asleep." he groaned, unconcerned.

But Anthea was. "On the floor?"

Lestrade looked around blearily. "What's wrong with the floor?" he protested.

"I thought you'd _died_, or something!" Anthea complained.

"Well I didn't!" Lestrade grumbled back, a little annoyed and being shouted at first thing in the morning. "Were you worried?" he smiled coyly, a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, my boss would have my skin if anything happened to you on my watch." she deadpanned.

"Truth be told, _I_ wouldn't mind having a bit of your skin too, if I could." Lestrade grinned boyishly.

A beat. Then, Anthea's eyes narrowed. "You're-... are you _hitting on me?_"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and shrugged with a noncommittal noise. "What I don't understand is why anybody wouldn't." He leveled her a frank look. "You're gorgeous."

"I am aware of that, thanks." Anthea said slowly, realizing she was treading on dangerous grounds. "But - um -..."

Lestrade grimaced. "Don't tell me - Mycroft?"

Anthea burst out into slightly hysterical giggles. "Me and Mycroft? Good Lord, no!"

"Oh, I sort of assumed..." Lestrade trailed off.

"Look." Anthea said firmly. "You're my friend, Lestrade - God knows I have precious few of those with my work and all - but there's something very important about us that you need to understand." She moved her hands back and forth between Lestrade and herself. "We are a decidedly bad idea." she stated gently.

"Why?" Lestrade asked her, curious.

"Because we are-..." Anthea paused, wondering how to explain the delicate relationship between them. "We're like the best friends who don't always talk about what happens in each others' personal lives, but we dump our cats onto each others' sofa when the need arises."

Lestrade thought about it for a while. "The stray." he realized.

"Marsh likes my couch and now she won't get off." Anthea groaned. "And she sheds _all over_ my clothes, she's _your_ cat, _you_ control her!"

"So you have cats too?" Lestrade asked.

"No, when I said that thing about 'dumping cats onto each others' sofas', it was metaphorical." Anthea said. "Truth is, I dump Mycroft on you when he's acting up. He's my cat." she confessed. "And a Hellish one at that."

For some reason, Lestrade felt the extreme urge to burst out laughing. So he did. It seemed that something about that statement, although he couldn't quite understand what, struck him as quite hilarious.

"Oh my God..." he gasped when he regained control over his giggles.

Anthea patted his shoulder indulgently. "We're like adopted siblings, and it's really weird... When, and if, you regain your memories, we'll laugh about it." Then she corrected herself. "Well,_ I'll_ laugh about it because I'm never going to let you live it down."

Then, she turned on her stilettos and disappeared into the kitchenette, leaving Lestrade wondering how he managed to irrevocably friendzone a killer lady like her.

To a Gregory Lestrade, mentally in his late twenties who was horribly single, it was unfathomable.

It seems there was still much to learn about his life.

* * *

"Who's your brother?" Lestrade asked Sherlock out of the blue.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. "Why? What's he done?" he asked, immediately suspicious.

Lestrade shrugged. "Nobody will tell me anything about him, least of all himself. They all just clam up when the topic comes up. It's like everybody's intentionally trying to keep me from remembering."

"It's probably better that way." Sherlock rattled mindlessly, as he usually did when it was his brother involved. "Why do you think I'd tell you anything if nobody else is?"

"Because you're not them." Lestrade shrugged simply. "And you're a rude bugger who wouldn't try to coddle me with white lies and 'You don't need to stress about it if you don't want to'. Believe me, I'd appreciate a little of that right now." he said frankly and without malice.

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and Lestrade could've sworn the corner of his mouth turned up a fraction of an inch. "My brother claims to have a minor position in the British Government, but that is a horrid lie." he said. "He _is_ the British Government."

Lestrade leveled him with an unimpressed look. "You're pulling my leg."

"Nope." Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft doesn't like saying it. It puts people off."

"I can imagine." Lestrade still sounded mightily skeptical so Sherlock sighed.

"Just... on your way home, or when you're out, just keep a subtle eye on the CCTV cameras." Sherlock advised. "You'll understand a bit of what I'm talking about."

"Go outside?" Lestrade huffed, standing up. "Alright. I'll go outside." he muttered to himself.

He left the flat... and returned ten minutes later.

"Holy shit."

"I told you."

"But... why?"

Sherlock considered him silently. "Because he's an idiot." he replied.

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air despairingly. "This is it. Here we go. Here I am again... not getting any proper answers." he groused.

Sherlock just grinned.

* * *

It was quite late that night when the doorbell of Mycroft's home rang.

Curious as to who could be at his door so late at night, Mycroft answered the call.

Lestrade stood there on his doorstep, looking miserable... and wet.

"Goodness, Gregory, are you alright?" Mycroft inwardly panicked but managed to keep a cool exterior.

Lestrade's hands twitched uncomfortably. "Um..." he said intelligently. "I did a bad thing."

"I'm sure that, barring kick-starting the Apocalypse, you'll be forgiven." Mycroft responded without missing a beat and sighed, exasperated.

Lestrade's eyebrows rose surprise. "You - um - sound like you've been through this situation before."

"Yes, Gregory, many times." Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock is, after all, my brother. And I've seen him through puberty." he added conspiratorially.

Lestrade gave a stiff huff of a laugh. "Oh."

Mycroft stepped aside. "Would you like to come in?"

"Yeah, thanks." The two of them walked into the sitting room.

"So, you mentioned a... problem?" Mycroft prompted delicately.

"I-... apparently, I forgot to fix the plumbing in my flat." Lestrade confessed with a shrug. "I - well - I can imagine I've forgotten much more important things, but seriously, my floor is swamped with sink water and grime." he grimaced.

Mycroft mirrored his expression. "Ah. I will have that handled immediately."

"I didn't want to drop in on Baker Street for reasons, Donovan and Dimmock are still on duty... I didn't know where else to go." Lestrade shrugged helplessly.

"Of course, I'll have the guest bedroom set up." Mycroft offered hurriedly.

"Thanks. Can I help?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft huffed. "Despite my sheltered upbringing, I _do_ know how to make a bed. Please remain seated, I'll be right back."

He stood and left the room, catching a glimpse of Lestrade perched miserably on the edge of his couch, before he closed the door behind himself. Then, he let out a great big sigh, leaning his back against the closed door.

"Lord give me strength." he groaned wryly.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Whoa - holy shit!"

_Thump!_

Mycroft's head jumped up mid bite, mouth hanging open in anticipation of sustenance. "Gregory?" He called out from the dining room table, half standing, wondering if he should go check up on his amnesiac lover/friend/house guest.

A moment later, Lestrade rushed in, bare feet sliding briefly on the hard wood flooring.

He paused and calmed down a little at the sight of Mycroft. "Oh, hello." he panted.

Mycroft glanced at him, down, up, and raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright?"

"What? Yes! Of course." Lestrade rattled. "Had a bit of a freak-out. 'Wait a sec, this isn't my room!'" he smiled, embarrassed. "I mean, last time this happened..." he trailed off. "Well, you don't want to know. All I can say about it is that I woke up in bed with more than one person I didn't know and I'm not in any hurry to repeat that."

"Um..."

"Sorry if I startled you." Lestrade looked suitably apologetic.

Just then, Anthea walked in. She nodded professionally at Mycroft, then in greeting at Lestrade, glanced down, froze, and raised her eyes pointedly to the ceiling with a soft and pointed clearing of her throat.

"Good... morning?" Lestrade greeted unsurely, immediately cautious of her strange attitude today. "What?"

"Um..." Anthea bit her lip to refrain from smiling.

"Gregory." Mycroft said, taking pity on his PA. "You're not wearing any trousers."

Lestrade froze, looked downward to see his underpants, back up at Mycroft, then at Anthea...

A wild rush for the door ensued and he disappeared.

A restrained snort of laughter from Mycroft set Anthea off and possibly two of England's most powerful subjects burst out into hysterical giggles.

Anthea leaned on the back of a chair and fanned herself with one hand. "Oh my..." she gasped, slightly pinker around her cheeks from holding her laughter in. "Do I even want to know?"

"He-..." Mycroft cleared his throat. "He woke up in an unfamiliar environment and panicked, apparently."

"Lucky you." Anthea smirked. "Or... unlucky."

"I'm leaning more toward the latter." Mycroft sighed longingly, staring at the door Lestrade exited from.

"Well..." Anthea said, patting his arm. "Look on the bright side, now you'll have something to really break the ice."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Anthea..."

"You're going to have to tell him, someday." Anthea cut in seriously. "He's not an idiot, he's going to find out."

Mycroft sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I know."

Anthea nodded back at her boss sympathetically. "Anyway, I just came to remind you about tonight's meeting with the PM." And then she turned to walk away. "Oh, by the way... he's got a nice ass. You're one lucky man."

Mycroft could hear the teasing smirk in her tone.

"Anthea!"

* * *

Lestrade threw himself down dramatically onto Mrs. Hudson's couch that afternoon, face-planting in the cushions, and let out a long, heavy groan.

"Goodness, dearie, what's the matter?" Mrs. Hudson fluttered around, fretting. Worried over her newest addition to what she dubbed the 'Baker Street Boys' or 'Brood' It depended on the level of her maternal concern.

Today, it was brood.

"I can never show my face to Mycroft or Anthea ever again." Lestrade whined, voice muffled into the couch cushions.

"What happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a motherly way, mix of stern and gentle.

"I woke up in a strange place and freaked out." Lestrade mumbled glumly.

"I'm sure it wasn't that-..."

"I yelled at the top of my lungs and dashed out into the dining room in my undies like an idiot." Lestrade informed her. "I couldn't face them after that so I hid in my room until they left for work."

Only Mrs. Hudson's tittering giggles made him raise his head. "Oh, dear."

"I want to die." Lestrade covered his red face with his hands. "Not to mention I flirted with Anthea and was told off because she's apparently like a sister to me." he added. "And now I'm stuck living with Mycroft and it's the current worst thing ever, besides my memory loss... and the fact that there is a whole new serial for Doctor Who, I mean, Eleventh Doctor? What happened to Sylvester McCoy?" he floundered.

Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder comfortingly through her stifled giggles. "Well, I'll make us some tea, yes?" she cooed. "Tea makes everything better."

"Okay..."

* * *

Tea with Mrs. Hudson was lovely, but what to do now? Lestrade frowned to himself as he wandered around in Sherlock and John's flat.

Mrs. Hudson told him that the Baker Street Duo were on a case and had gone out late last night and hadn't yet come back. Which was a real pity, really, because all the friends he had re-acquainted himself with had work, and so did Mycroft and Anthea... not that he'd hang around them even if it was their day off.

And now he found himself sitting around in Baker Street by himself, wondering what to do.

He reached over and picked up a newspaper from the coffee table. He had already read the same one earlier at Mycroft's. He sighed and tossed it.

A slip of paper slid out from between the sheaves of paper and fluttered to the floor.

He picked it up. There was an address scrawled on it in Sherlock's elegant but bordering on lazy handwriting.

"Hm... this looks interesting."

* * *

"I have a feeling that we've had this conversation many times before." John said, face devoid of all expression as they crouched outside a stranger's flat.

Sherlock looked at him, annoyed. "Well, we've got to get evidence before the police can get involved, don't we?"

"That doesn't mean we can break into people's flats to get it!" John hissed back.

"Well, _we_ don't need to." Sherlock said suggestively.

"I'm not leaving you to do a stupid thing alone." John told him without hesitation. "But can we just... tone down the B&E if it's not entirely necessary?"

"It is, believe me." Sherlock said. "Now, if you'll let me-..." He turned back to the lock he was attempting to open.

"Who's house are we breaking into, then?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"You wouldn't want to know, Greg." John said absently, watching Sherlock's work.

Sherlock whipped around to face them... and after a moment, John realized the oddity and stared at Lestrade as well.

"What?" Lestrade asked, a little annoyed.

"Lestrade!"

"Greg!"

"Donkey!" Lestrade grinned widely, then turned serious. "But seriously, who's flat?"

A beat.

"I think you really need to get out of here." John stated, seeing that his friend was quite shell-shocked at Lestrade's presence.

"Are you kidding?" Lestrade scoffed, snatching Sherlock's lock-picking tools out of limp hands.

_Click._ Record timing. Not even Sherlock was that fast.

Lestrade snorted, rolling his eyes, and shoved the tools back into Sherlock's hands. "Amateurs." he grumbled as he hauled the door open and walked in.

Sherlock and John exchanged glances and followed.

"So, what's going on?" Lestrade asked, pulling on a pair of gloves as his eyes skimmed absently over the furniture. "Are you going to tell me, or should I guess?"

"Blackmail case." Sherlock mumbled reluctantly. "The letters are in the office safe."

"Letters?" Lestrade scoffed quietly. "How old fashioned."

"My client is a man of a previous age." Sherlock replied dryly.

"Okay, okay." John held up his hands to stop them. "Can we just get this over with? We can talk about it later."

They snuck into the office and Sherlock picked the safe while John and Lestrade kept watch. It was the moment the small bundle of letters were in Sherlock's pocket when trouble showed up.

The ordeal began with Lestrade's observation.

"Hey, John." he whispered. "Is that a dog bowl?"

Somewhere outside the office, a canine growled.

John stared uneasily at the bowl. "Its a little big, yeah?" he whispered back nervously. "I don't think it's for a chihuahua."

Then, the office door slammed open and a Rottweiler barreled in, barking.

"Oh my God!" John jumped out of the way.

The Rottweiler set its gaze on Sherlock and bounded across the office toward him. Sherlock hastily circled around the desk, coattails flying, keeping the large piece of furniture between him and the furious dog.

It would've been funny if it wasn't so serious. ... Oh, who was he kidding? Lestrade dashed out of the office after John, bent double, stifling his laughter by biting down on his fist.

"Sherlock!" John shouted over his shoulder concernedly.

"I got this." Lestrade gasped between giggles. "Here boy! Over here!" He whistled.

John stared at him like he was crazy, but the dog responded, giving up on Sherlock in favor of new prey.

"Don't worry." Lestrade told John calmly. "I've done this before."

"Was that supposed to reassure me?" John hissed.

They could hear the Rottweiler's heavy paws striking the floor of the hall behind them.

"Trust me." Lestrade said cheerfully. "I'm a professional."

Then, he broke off John's side, dashing into the bathroom while John, with Sherlock following, escaped through the kitchen.

The Rottweiler charged blindly through the bathroom door, teeth bared, but Lestrade was waiting for it.

He threw the shower curtain over the dog, both confusing and blinding it. He took that moment to cross the bathroom over the dog, leaping off the closed toilet seat. He slammed the door after himself, relieved to hear the latch click into place.

A moment later, he could hear raged howls and paws scratching on the door.

"Sorry, boy." Lestrade patted the closed door and made his own escape.

He stumbled as quickly as he could out of the house and down the street, still laughing mildly to himself, high on adrenaline, when the car pulled up beside him.

The back passenger door opened and Sherlock poked his head out, scowling.

"Get in." he said tersely.

Lestrade complied and ducked into the car to see John also in the back seat... with Mycroft.

And he didn't look too happy.

"Oh shit..."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"I can't believe you!" Mycroft exclaimed, distraught.

"What can't you believe?" Lestrade crossed his arms and huffed. "I apologized already!"

The three Baker Street Boys were settled in one of Mycroft's cars after they had been picked up a few streets down from the flat they had broken into.

They pulled up at Baker Street and Mycroft opened the passenger door. "Out." he snapped at Sherlock and John.

Both hurried out like scolded boys and the car took off again.

"You know, I always thought you'd help me keep Sherlock _out_ of trouble, not get _into_ it." Mycroft said angrily.

"In my defense, they were already breaking into the flat when I got there. If it hadn't been for me, those slowpokes might've gotten arrested even before they got the damn lock open." Lestrade shrugged.

"Well maybe you should've stopped them instead of aiding them!" Mycroft said testily.

"Oh, and where were _you?_ Huh? Mister 1984?" Lestrade snapped back heatedly. "You don't seem half as upset about Sherlock or John breaking and entering, than me, okay? Explain that to me! Why didn't _you_ swoop in and stop them? You _knew_ they were going to break into that house and you could've stopped it, but you didn't. Why is it such a big deal to you that_ I_ do?"

"Gregory, as you know-..."

"No I fucking don't!" Lestrade seethed. "Because I don't _fucking_ _remember!_"

"Gregory." Mycroft heaved a sigh. "You're not acting yourself."

"Maybe I am, Mycroft." Lestrade shot back challengingly. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe - just _maybe_ - that I do these kind of things?"

"No, it hasn't." Mycroft replied firmly. "The Gregory Lestrade that I know would _never._"

"And he sounds like a nice enough bloke." Lestrade retorted, steadily working himself into a frenzy. "But he sure as Hell doesn't sound like me. At least not who I am yet. Because, I can't even _begin_ to imagine why I'm friends with you! You and your... CCTVs, your spies, and your silly cars, you_ freak the Hell_ out of me!"

Mycroft visibly recoiled as if struck. Lestrade stared back, wide-eyed, as if he couldn't really believe what he had just said.

They sat staring at each other, speechless, for a moment.

"Mycroft, I-... I'm sorry, that was unfair of me." Lestrade grew quiet for a moment before letting out a sigh. "I can't-... I can't. Please stop the car."

Mycroft paused.

"Stop the fucking car." Lestrade repeated, looking worn out.

Mycroft nodded to his driver through the rear view mirror and the car rolled to a stop on the side of the street.

Lestrade got out and walked away in the opposite direction.

Mycroft sighed heavily, massaging his temples before nodding again to his driver.

"Home, please." he croaked, defeated.

The driver nodded and the car drove off.

* * *

"You two had a bit of a row, then?" Anthea asked sympathetically when Mycroft got back home.

"I don't want to talk about it." Mycroft snapped defensively, then breathed deeply. "I'm sorry."

"You're an idiot, Sir." Anthea told him flatly.

"No really, tell me what you honestly think, Anthea." Mycroft returned sarcastically as he fairly collapsed into one of the sitting room sofas.

Anthea was quiet for a moment, then she approached Mycroft's side, expression icy. Mycroft met her gaze flatly and waited for her to speak.

"When we first heard of Gregory Lestrade, back when Sherlock first met him, you put me up to the task of researching him, his life, his character." she prompted.

"Yes, I did." Mycroft nodded. "I remember."

"I spent fifteen hours going through his life with a fine tooth comb, you know." Anthea said. "I wrote up a file on him, one that you only bothered to skim through as you are wont to do with someone you considered... unimportant."

"That was when I thought Sherlock was just going through a phase." Mycroft frowned.

Anthea nodded silently. "Do you know why he did it?"

"Why who did what?" Mycroft asked her, eyebrow raised.

"Why Lestrade saved your brother." Anthea said. "What he saw in him when he decided to clean him up instead of dismissing him as just another hopeless case."

Mycroft looked up at her, curious. "What?"

"Because Sherlock reminded him of himself." Anthea told him. "Young, stupid, addicted, homeless, nowhere to turn to, and too proud to ask for help. He had a drinking problem and B&E'd his fair share too in his youth. The only reason he didn't get arrested was because he never got caught."

Mycroft lowered his gaze.

"He wasn't always a police officer, Sir." Anthea reminded him. "He picked himself up and made something good of himself. But he wasn't always that man." she told him. "He grew into it."

Mycroft sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

"I know."

"But he's not that man, not yet." Anthea continued. "You have to learn to accept that."

"I know." Mycroft could only repeat.

* * *

Dimmock was just coming off duty when he ran into Lestrade at the Yard. "Oh, Lestrade! How are you?" he asked cheerfully.

"Um..." Lestrade said, wondering what to say. "My flat is flooded. Plumbing problems."

Dimmock grimaced. "Oh, sorry to hear that, mate. Do you want to kip on my couch? It's not all that comfy..."

"Thanks." Lestrade smiled. "I appreciate it."

As they walked out, Dimmock took a closer look at Lestrade. "Christ, you look awful." he noticed.

"Had a bit of a row with Mycroft." Lestrade sighed.

"What? Trouble in Paradise?" Dimmock asked him, slightly worried, evidently uninformed of the fact that nobody was telling Lestrade about the true relationship between Lestrade and Mycroft.

"Trouble in-...?" Lestrade trailed off, suddenly wiping all expression off his face. Then, a stormy expression slowly replaced it. "Oh... oh, son of a bitch! Well, that explains things!"

"Hm?" Dimmock looked clueless.

"Nevermnd." Lestrade shook his head. "Can we just stop by my place to pick up some stuff?"

"Course."

* * *

In Lestrade's flat, Lestrade paused in his packing an overnight bag when he picked up his toothbrush. He picked up his toothpaste and examined it. He was almost certain that he saw the exact brand in Mycroft's house.

He opened the cupboard above the sink.

One type of aftershave on the shelf. But two distinct scents lingered in the air. He closed the cupboard and moved into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and dropped his head into his hands.

he had found condoms and lubricant in the nightstand. _Christ._

That would explain why his wardrobe was a mix of cheap work suits and clothes with a few randomly expensive accessories. Probably gifts.

Oh God... Mycroft Holmes. He was-... They were-... Had been-... Oh Hell, and _nobody_ thought it might be important to tell him that?

And he had flirted with _Anthea_ of all people. And then showed up in front of them in his underwear. And then had a row with Mycroft.

But God, that must've smarted for him. A small part of Lestrade wickedly rationalized that Mycroft had that one coming. But whether Mycroft deserved it, or not, didn't change the fact that he had done something truly awful.

He let out a high-pitched, slightly hysterical giggle into his hands and wanted to cry at the clusterfuck that was his life.

"Are you okay?" Dimmock asked, suddenly poking his head into the room.

Lestrade jumped, jarred out of his panicked musings, and looked up. "Dimmock, I am officially one of life's biggest losers." he stated morosely.

Dimmock snorted. "No you're bloody not, idiot. Why would you think that?"

Lestrade's shoulders slumped. "Word of the wise: ignorance is bliss."

"Whatever." Dimmock rolled his eyes. "Come on then. You can sort yourself out tomorrow. I want to get home."

"Okay." Lestrade said, sounding in shock and rather defeated. "Okay."


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

John returned from the grocery store the next day to see Mycroft and Sherlock in a another one of their catty stare-down battles over the accepting or declining of a case.

"Oh God, tell me when it's over." the doctor groaned, cutting through the room and making a bee-line to the kitchen, unloading all the shopping.

Mycroft just sneered slightly at his younger brother and Sherlock hissed.

John made himself a cup of tea and peeked back into the sitting room. Still staring. He sighed and rummaged through the cupboard for some jam for his biscuits.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was playing a few light melodies on his violin and preening. The file that had been on the coffee table when John walked in was gone.

It seemed like Sherlock had won this round.

"Finished, ladies?" John said.

"I think he's talking to you, Mycroft." Sherlock said derisively.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes back dangerously but let it go.

"How's Greg?" John asked as he sipped his tea.

Mycroft paused for a brief second as he raised his own teacup to his mouth. "He is well."

Sherlock lowered his violin bow, sharp gaze zeroing on him like an eagle stalking crippled prey. "What did you do?"

John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock. "What?"

"I assure you, it is none of your business." Mycroft replied coolly.

"Oh, shit." John sighed heavily, already having a bad feeling about whatever Mycroft was about to say next.

"We had a bit of a... disagreement." Mycroft said reasonably.

"Which, knowing you, could mean anything from World War III to 'swimming with the fishes'." Sherlock pointed out sarcastically.

"Thank you, Sherlock." John snapped. "You're not helping. But I _am_ impressed that you remembered that reference." The ex-military man rounded on Mycroft. "How is he?"

"He has taken up dwellings on Inspector Dimmock's sofa." Mycroft told them.

"Ha!" Sherlock barked, grinning at Mycroft's uncomfortable expression.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John groaned. "Let the grown ups talk, okay?"

Sherlock made a childish face and stalked off to the window where he resumed playing his violin.

John sighed and turned back to Mycroft. "I hope it wasn't about yesterday's incident."

Mycroft frowned. "I'm afraid it was."

"Well, I can tell you that it really was our fault." John said hurriedly. "We didn't exactly try to stop him hard enough."

"It is not what we did, or did not do, that my brother is upset about." Sherlock chimed in from his place at the window, back still turned to them. "He's upset that _Lestrade_ did not stop_ us_."

Mycroft glared at his brother's back, but did not say anything to contradict him.

"Ohh..." John let out, not knowing what else to say. "I see. Well have you-..."

"Like I said, it is none of your concern." Mycroft repeated, cutting John off, earning him an annoyed glare. "I will handle the matter."

Sherlock snorted. "You? _Handle Lestrade?_ Since when were you so able?"

"Well, what would you advise?" Mycroft shot back testily.

"How about-..." John tried to inject, but Sherlock spoke over him.

"Leaving him alone, he can do what he pleases." Sherlock said flatly.

"An apology wouldn't go amiss." John interrupted loudly before Mycroft could speak. Both Holmeses looked at him, slightly startled. The Doctor raised his teacup to his mouth and sipped delicately. "But this is just the 'dull' and 'boring' human instinct talking, don't mind me."

It didn't take a gifted observer to see that John was clearly annoyed at all the brotherly arguing going on. His expression said 'It's teatime, you brats. Argue over teatime, I dare you. I am going to drink my tea, and free both hands for retribution in just a moment, so_ run._'

Mycroft stood up and smoothed out his suit with his hands. "Well, this has been fun." he said. "But I must be off. Good afternoon."

And he walked out.

* * *

_If it is not too much to ask, I would like to see you. -MH_

Lestrade stopped rifling through the envelope of photos he had brought in his overnight bag and picked up his phone.

"Is it the elder Mister Holmes?" Dimmock asked, seeing his conflicted expression.

Lestrade looked at him. "Yeah."

_Anthea has informed me that it is proper to apologize to you personally. -MH_

"You okay?" Dimmock asked him.

"Uh, we had a row." Lestrade confessed.

"Ah, yeah..." Dimmock wrung a dishrag in his hands. "You mentioned that before. Can I ask what happened?"

Lestrade was about to tell him, when he remembered his friend's, and his own, occupation. Perhaps it wasn't the best of ideas to tell him he'd B&Ed with Sherlock and John. "Maybe some other time."

"Well, okay..." Dimmock shrugged. "But, you're alright? He's not giving you any problems, is he?"

_Will you come? -MH_

Lestrade stared at his phone contemplatively. "Uh... I'll get back to you on that one."

* * *

Mycroft had been sitting at his table in the cafe for an hour before someone slid into the seat opposite.

He looked up.

"I was about to give up hope that you'd come." he said.

Lestrade shrugged. "I wasn't gonna. But Dimmock was bothered about that car you sent to hang around outside his flat."

Both knew that Mycroft parked his vehicles with the utmost subtlety when he did not want to be noticed, and was not usually noticed by the average passersby, especially not Dimmock.

Mycroft was surprised enough that Lestrade noticed it without knowing to look for it.

"Have you eaten?" Mycroft asked him, remembering his manners. When Lestrade didn't answer, Mycroft rephrased his question. "Will you eat with me?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes slightly and sighed reluctantly. "Might as well."

Mycroft waved over a waiter and both placed their orders.

When the waiter left, Lestrade turned back to Mycroft. "So, you wanted me to come?" He spread his hands over the table. "Here I am."

"I-..." Mycroft cleared his throat. "I wanted to apologize to you about my behavior the other day. That was-..." he faltered for a brief moment when Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "... Inappropriate of me, not to mention unfair to you. If my words have angered or insulted you, I'm sorry."

"Well, I wasn't going too easy on you either." Lestrade admitted. "I was upset and everything I said was meant to hurt you." he looked a little sheepish. "I don't actually mean what I said. ...Sorry."

Mycroft let out a silent sigh of relief, but his shoulders sagged enough to notice to someone who was watching. "Let's call it even?" he proposed.

Lestrade nodded. "We're even."

Mycroft mirrored him. "Good... that's good."

Lestrade's eyebrow rose. "Anything else you'd like to say?"

"I don't underst-..."

A waiter cut Mycroft off as he set down their orders. Mycroft frowned a little at the interruption. Being served quickly was nice and all, but not while he was talking!

Lestrade saw his affronted expression and snickered. "Saved by the waiter, Mycroft." he hinted. "You might want to rethink your reply."

After their meal had been served and glasses of drink filled, the waiter left.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft said when they were alone again.

Lestrade twirled a bite of pasta around his fork. "What for, this time?"

"I-..." Mycroft sighed. "You must understand, Gregory, that there are many things in your life that are - you can say -_ complicated_. With or without your memories."

"Isn't everybody's life like that?" Lestrade asked, sipping from his glass of water.

"Yes, I suppose." Mycroft conceded.

"So, what's so complicated about my life?" Lestrade prompted.

"Let's see, you are on very good terms with Sergeant Donovan, who is one of your closest friends, who annoys you greatly when she fights with Sherlock, who is also one of your close friends, who annoys you greatly when he picks fights with people, especially with John, who is also a close friend of yours, who annoys you greatly when he shoots people, who work under the influence of the consulting criminal - Moriarty, with the Browning L9A1 that he legally does not possess. Which causes the criminal world to cause a ruckus which means more work for the police. And that, in turn, irks me, who you have been at odds with for many years. Have I mentioned that we are in a relationship?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows with an expression that said 'Well? You asked for it'.

Lestrade was frozen in shock, fork levitating in the air between his plate and his gaping mouth. All he wanted was a, 'I'm sorry for not telling you that you were in a relationship before you went around and flirted with other people'! A gob of pasta comically fell off the utensil with a 'plop'.

"If you have not noticed, you are a very complicated man with a very difficult life." Mycroft said with a sympathetic smile. "I apologize about hiding our relationship with you, I did not wish to complicate matters further."

Lestrade finally closed his mouth, but his mind was still reeling slightly at the information overload. "Oh."

"I was, in actuality, waiting until you came to grips with life, handling Sherlock and Scotland Yard, before I told you." Mycroft explained. "The way I see it, you can only be associated with a Holmes, or in a relationship with one. You cannot have both without presently going mad."

"Right." Lestrade said slowly, then his head jumped up. "Waaait a minute, I work with Sherlock, and I'm in a relationship with you!"

Mycroft just smiled and let Lestrade fret over what that smile meant.

"I hate you." Lestrade said grumpily once he realized Mycroft was just having fun at his expense.

Mycroft ignored him and picked up his fork. "Are you eating?" he asked sweetly.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the man's petty antics. "Not anymore." he joked, expression mock indignant.

Mycroft grinned slightly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Bastard." Lestrade growled back, and continued eating. "By the way, who's Moriarty? Is he a friend?"

Mycroft almost choked on his bite of food. "Gregory, we really must school you on your life."

"Crash course on the life of Gregory Lestrade?"

"Quite."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"So, I've been married once?"

"Yes, and divorced."

"Because of an affair?"

"Though not you with me, no. Her with a P.E. teacher."

"Do I have kids?"

"No."

"Oh, okay. But, you and I-...?"

"Disliked each other since before we met, how could we not? We irked each other on sight, not to mention that Sherlock was the middle man and he very specifically did not want us to get along. He is quite the saboteur when the whim strikes him."

"Well, this second-first meeting with you did not involve a kidnapping of any sort so... points for that, I guess."

"I am glad to hear that but I'm not sure our second-first meeting whilst in the hospital after getting shot was any better than the first."

"How long have we been...?"

"Three years."

"Jesus...! And you let me flirt with Anthea? You little shit!"

"Wait, you and_ Anthea?_ Why-... oh God, what in Heaven's for? You must have a death wish!"

"I didn't _know!_ And I'm kind of surprised _you_ didn't."

"Anthea could be a secretive one when the whim strikes her, she was probably saving it up for when she needed to blackmail you. Any other questions?"

"Just one... Sherlock and John are-...?"

"No, not yet at least. They're stubborn. John is straight and Sherlock is asexual. But we hold on hoping."

"We?"

"It was _your_ idea in the first place."

"Why do you sound so accusatory?"

"I assure you, I do no mean to sound that way."

"Maybe you don't_ mean_ to, and I hate to break it to you... but you do."

"... Perhaps, just a little."

"Why?"

"No particular reason."

"... _Oh_. Oh my God!"

"What is it, Gregory?"

"Holy shit, and here I thought you _hated_ Sherlock!"

"You are trying my patience, Gregory."

"_He's your precious baby brother!_ Oh my God, Mycroft, you have a protective streak!"

Lestrade threw his head back and let out a laugh. Mycroft crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at him. "I do not. Sherlock can do whatever he wants, it's no business of mine."

"... Or, _whoever_ he wants." Lestrade tried to stifle a snicker, and failed.

"Gregory..." Mycroft growled warningly.

They had left the restaurant after their meal and, true to his word, Mycroft had begun schooling Lestrade about his life and the people close to him.

The car pulled to a halt outside Dimmock's flat and Lestrade got out. "Well, this is my stop. Goodnight then." he said.

"Goodnight, Gregory." Mycroft responded with a nod.

"I'll see you...?"

"Without fail."

Lestrade nodded and turned to walk away, then turned back. "Hey, Mycroft, you and I-..." Lestrade trailed off uncomfortably, glancing at Mycroft from under his eyelashes, and quickly looking away like a startled fawn.

It was odd, for the first time in their romantic history, Lestrade was looking to him for answers very much like a child, instead of an adult on an equal footing.

Mycroft had to sympathize with him. Lestrade was still young, in his mind. His life was still a large new world opening up for him. In the same way that teenagers look at legal adults with awe and caution, to Lestrade, who was in his late twenties, Mycroft, who was nearing fifty, must seem like an ancient who came from some alien planet.

"For the moment, there will be no 'you and I' in a romantic sense." Mycroft assured him. "Not until you feel comfortable with the idea."

"I can't ask you to do that." Lestrade said, speaking as neutral on the confusing matter as he could, distancing himself emotionally and observing the situation from a third person point of view. "That's not fair."

"And I can't, in all good conscious, ask you to throw yourself into a relationship with a man you hardly know anything about." Mycroft told him reasonably. "That is not fair either."

"I'm not saying I don't like you or anything." Lestrade was quick to add on. "I mean, you're attractive, smart, tall-dark-and-mysterious, and a little bit of everything the chic-flicks eat up, and I could see why I was attracted, but..." He trailed off uncomfortably.

"Only, I'm taken." Mycroft finished for him understandingly.

"By me." Lestrade nodded wryly with half a smile. "Past, present, and future tense." he joked. "Does that make any sense, at all?"

Mycroft snorted. "Only in our lives."

"So what, throw the chips?" Lestrade said.

"Let them fall where they may, in their own time." Mycroft nodded.

"Okay." Lestrade smiled a little, relieved at settling the matter for the time being. Then, he shook himself. "Well, um, I'm going now. Bye." He gave a little wave before jogging up and into Dimmock's flat.

Mycroft kept an eye on him until he was safely inside. Then, he turned to his driver. "Home please."

* * *

Inside, Dimmock was brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed. "You back, mate?" he asked through his mouthful of toothpaste.

"Yeah." Lestrade poked his head into the bathroom. "You turning in?"

"I've got an early shift tomorrow."

"Ah, good luck with that."

"Thanks." Dimmock spat into the sink and turned. "By the way, a pretty lady stopped by earlier and dropped off a cat, said it was yours?"

"Hm?" Lestrade responded just in time to feel something warm brush up against his calf and he jumped a mile high. "Holy shit!"

Dimmock burst out laughing as the ghostly white feline hissed and darted away, startled.

"Oh Christ, that was Marsh, wasn't it?" Lestrade grimaced after the fleeing cat.

"Been wondering why she was called Marsh..." Dimmock hummed.

"Mycroft mentioned her real name being 'Marshmellow', but we just called her 'Marsh' because it was shorter." Lestrade replied with a shrug. "I mean, I don't remember it, or anything." he added at Dimmock's hopeful look.

"So, you two've made up?"

"Um... probably. You can never tell with these Holmeses."

"I won't question that."

* * *

Lestrade woke up with a cat sitting on his face, smothering him.

"Ohmfffgg!"

Marsh leapt lightly off his face to avoid his flailing arms and landed somewhere near his feet.

"Fuck!" Lestrade hissed when his sleepy arms missed the cat and slapped his own face. "Ohhh, you sly animal, are you trying to kill me?" He groaned, holding his face.

Marsh just meowed at him, unimpressed, and turned her nose up at the pathetic human.

"Urgh, need coffee." Lestrade got up from the couch to see that Dimmock had already left the flat.

He found an old coffee machine in Dimmock's kitchen, caked in dust from disuse, and wrinkled his nose. "What do you think, Marsh?" he said to the cat rubbing his leg. "How does instant sound?"

Marsh let out a low, unsatisfied mew.

"Yeah, me neither. But we must make do."

He set about making toast and filled Marsh's food bowl with cat crunchies, both brought by Anthea when she dropped the cat off. Marsh immediately perked up at the sound of breakfast being shook into her bowl and wandered closer.

"There we go." Lestrade said to her. "Must be nice, having such simple joys." As the white feline passed by him, he reached out and ran his hand over the soft fur on her back.

A bad idea, he very quickly found out.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson strolled out of her flat when she heard the front door open and stopped dead in her tracks. "Oh my...!"

Lestrade looked at her sheepishly. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson."

There were a few great things about the situation that the elderly woman felt had the need to be explained such as the razor thin red marks that were clearly visible on Lestrade's face and neck, the black leather bike jacket he was wearing, and the petite white cat in his arms that was still clawing and gnawing persistently on his leather-clad hands and arms.

"You're looking mighty handsome, Dearie, good morning." Mrs. Hudson managed to get out. "Shall I make us a cuppa? I think I could use some of the strong stuff right about now." She joked, fanning herself with her hand.

"That would be nice." Lestrade laughed and followed her.

When they were inside, Lestrade closed the door firmly behind him and only then put Marsh down.

Quick as a flash, Marsh had darted around the four corners of Mrs. Hudson's sitting room causing havoc, and finally screeched to a halt in the small space under one of the cabinets.

"Oh, goodness!" Mrs. Hudson wailed at the mess.

"Marsh!" Lestrade exclaimed reprimandingly at the same time.

Marsh's head poked out briefly at hearing her name, but just as quickly disappeared again. The shrew.

"She's been like that all morning since I tried to pet her while she was in an eating mindset." Lestrade told Mrs. Hudson apologetically as he helped her fix the damage his cat had caused. "Hasn't stopped trying to kill me since."

"Cats will do that to you." Mrs. Hudson hummed back. "Now, let's see how that cuppa is coming along."

* * *

Sherlock barged in an hour later for a sample of Mrs. Hudson's 'medicinal herbs' for a case with John following close on his heels trying to stop him. The cop in Lestrade _really_ didn't want to know the details.

"Oh, wow." John was the first to speak.

"Wow, what?" Lestrade asked back, perplexed at the gobsmacked looks the two men were giving him.

"Um... Never seen you out of a work suit before." John replied as casually as possible.

"Except for that time in Dartmoor, John." Sherlock put in.

"Dartmoor, yes." John nodded back absently.

"_I've_ seen that jacket." Sherlock boasted.

"When you broke into his flat?" John guessed dryly.

"Wrong. He was wearing it." Sherlock snorted. "He was still a sergeant back then, was called in to a crime scene on his day off. His superior officer made him march right back out and change into 'something more professional'." The consulting detective snickered. "First and last time he was kicked out of a crime scene... I like to remind him of it every once in a while when he kicks me out."

"God, I never-..." John was cut off when Lestrade lunged past them.

"Dammit, Sherlock! You should've closed the door!" The Baker Street Duo caught a glimpse of white out of the corner of their eyes and Lestrade dashed out of the flat after Marsh.

Both stared after him for a contemplative moment.

"We should show this to Mycroft." John suggested, deadpanned.

"We must." Sherlock replied flatly.

"Blackmail material?"

"Enough to last a year at least. I like how you think."

"I have my moments."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"Gotcha, you little shit!" Lestrade grinned triumphantly when he snagged Marsh by the scruff of her neck.

Marsh let out a horrible strangled noise and twisted, trying to scratch him again.

"Oh, no you don't!" Lestrade growled warningly, half juggling the feline from one hand to the other several times to avoid sharp claws. He reminded himself to give the cat a manicure.

By the time Marsh had calmed enough to hang limply in his hands, people in the street were staring at him.

"I assure you, this is not what it looks like." he said to a particularly scandalized looking woman. She stared back hotly. "Marsh is just skittish about the new digs, if she leaves, I'll never find her and-... why am I explaining myself to you?"

There was a good-natured chuckle behind him and Lestrade turned.

"Oh, hello Mycroft." he greeted casually as if he had not just been dashing about Baker Street chasing after a cat.

Mycroft reached out and tickled Marsh under her jaw ever so delicately and the feline practically melted at the touch.

Lestrade stared at Marsh, then at Mycroft. Then, he scowled. "Oh, Hell no." he grumbled. "First you know everything about everybody. Then apparently you're my boyfriend. And now you're a cat whisperer? Christ, how do you exist?"

"With great enjoyment." Mycroft responded with a polite smile.

"'With great enjoyment'." Lestrade echoed in Mycroft's exaggerated posh tone. "_Fuuuck._ It isn't fair. You didn't even freak out when you saw my leather jacket like Sherlock and John were hoping you would."

Mycroft sniffed. "Men such as I do not - as you say - 'freak out'."

Both smiled.

They must've made an odd pair standing in the street, a scruffy leather-clad man with wild silver hair and a combed copper-haired man in an immaculate suit bonding over a hybrid angel/demon/cat/meowing marshmallow.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Anyway... I was just going to get Marsh back to Mrs. Hudson's. She said she'd look after the little minx for the day."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "Do you have plans?"

"Not really." Lestrade shrugged. "Just wandering around waiting for memories to come back to me. John and I are going down to the pub later, though. I would invite you, but I can't imagine you in a pub, and John made me promise not to involve any Holmes."

Mycroft huffed. "Of course. And I wish you the best of luck."

Now, it was Lestrade's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Why? What for?"

A mysterious smile graced Mycroft's face. "You may not remember, but you and John have a history of pub brawls."

"Oh." An unreadable look overtook Lestrade's face. "Well, I hope I remember."

"As do I." Mycroft responded and began walking away to his parked car.

"You know, I heard that some people _never_ regain their memories." Lestrade said to his retreating back and Mycroft froze.

Sometimes, Lestrade acted so unflappable and accepting of his memory loss that it wasn't difficult to forget that such a thing should bother any man.

Then, after a moment, Mycroft turned to face Lestrade. "That may be the case." he acknowledged, thinking about his words. "But it also may not be. Don't worry yourself over things you have no control over, Gregory." he said. "Sherlock and I have always been cynics... but _you_ have never struck me as one."

Lestrade huffed. "Then, I guess it would be fruitless to start now?"

Mycroft smiled back bitterly, upset at his own uselessness. "Quite."

Lestrade nodded slowly to himself, staring at his boots. Suddenly, Marsh meowed at him, shaking him out of his thoughts and he sighed. "Well, anyway, I should be going."

Mycroft nodded. "Send my regards to my brother."

"I won't." Lestrade snorted. "I don't want to die."

Mycroft just shook his head and chuckled back at Lestrade's exaggeration. Then, with a twirl of his umbrella, he walked away.

Lestrade watched him disappear into his black car and began making his way back to 221b Baker Street.

* * *

In the privacy of his car, Mycroft let out a large sigh of relief and briefly ran his uncharacteristically hot palm over the crotch of his trousers, practically collapsing into himself.

But God, that was close. Almost too close.

Mycroft felt a searing heat race across the skin of his cheeks and propped his elbows on his knees, placing his head in his hands. Lestrade's... _attire_ had taken him well and thoroughly off guard. And, despite Lestrade's remarks, he did - in fact - 'freak out'.

It was just... unnoticeable to the untrained eye. It was fortunate that it was Mycroft who spotted Lestrade first and had time to recover his composure, rather than the other way around.

That would have been... awkward and problematic, to be concise.

He should've known that Sherlock was up to no good when he texted him to come to Baker Street.

The bastard.

He'd get him back sooner or later.

* * *

A minute or two later, Sherlock's phone buzzed with an incoming text and he picked it up. He paled.

"What? What is it, Sherlock?" John asked, visibly concerned.

"Nothing." Sherlock coughed, trying to act casual. "Just my brother, threatening my life, as usual."

"As usual." John repeated, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "You Holmeses."

"Hey, I'm back!" Lestrade called from downstairs.

"Found her, have you?" Mrs. Hudson cooed. "There's a dear."

"Here she is, safe and sound." Lestrade called back, the smile in his voice evident as he held Marsh aloft like Rafiki with Simba.

John looked at Sherlock pointedly. "Oh. That."

"That." Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"I can only hope that someone got that on camera so your death would not be in vain." John deadpanned.

"Way ahead of you, John." Sherlock snorted back. "We should probably flee the country. The Bahamas sound good to you?"

John chuckled. "My bags are already packed."

* * *

Sum it to say that the Baker Street Duo never went through with their imaginary plans to flee the country because John showed up at the pub that night with Lestrade.

"So, how are you holding up?" John asked as the two found a nice private place to duck into.

"Oh, so-so." Lestrade wiggled his hand that was not holding a drink.

"I don't know how 'so-so' that is." John reminded him.

"Well... I still have no recollection of my last twenty years or so." Lestrade shrugged. "But, Mycroft, Anthea, Donovan, and Dimmock have been sort of filling me in about some people."

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows as he took his first sip. "I hope Mycroft hasn't been bad-mouthing Sherlock _too_ much."

"Uh..." The truth was, Mycroft hadn't said anything bad about Sherlock that Lestrade did not already know after meeting him. "Well."

"That bad, huh?" John sighed.

"What? No!"

"No?"

Lestrade grimaced. "Well, I don't know if I should tell you this because Mycroft seems happier without telling, but he doesn't dislike Sherlock as much as he acts."

"Well, they _are_ brothers." John agreed.

Lestrade just grunted back. "They're weird."

John burst out laughing. "That's probably the most normal thing I've ever heard you say."

Lestrade wrinkled his nose. "Really? I can't imagine how I'm like."

John took a contemplative sip of his beer. Then, seemingly making a decision, he nodded to himself and put his drink down. He stared over the table at his friend with the most serious expression.

"You know, Greg, I'm getting a serious sense of deja vu here." Lestrade raised his eyebrows midsip. "When we first met, it was me that was the stranger to the Holmeses and you invited me out for a drink down at-... well, if memory serves, it was actually this _exact_ pub."

"Really?" Lestrade looked lightly intrigued.

"Yeah, we were sitting over there." John turned and pointed at a table near a window. "And you sat me down and laid down the basic rules of thumb for me."

Lestrade took a gulp of his drink and set his own glass down. "Alright, give me."

John nodded back. "Alright, rule one: don't touch Sherlock's experiments."

"Sound advice, I reckon." Lestrade shrugged.

"Rule two: never start something with a Holmes that you cannot stop."

"Wow, I sound pretty reasonable."

"Greg, you have no idea how many times your rules have saved my life and sanity." John chuckled. "Anyway, rule three: draw a clear-cut line between the things you will and will not do. And never compromise because if you give them an inch, they'll take a mile."

"Okay, I'm a cop and they're Holmeses, I can get that."

"And, last but not least: know who these Holmeses are, and never forget that."

Lestrade thought about that for a moment or two. "What did I mean about that?"

John thought about his answer. "In all my time living with Sherlock, I've found that they are... well, you can never really get a firm grip on their character. Sometimes Sherlock will be a scientist, pathologist, con-artist, philosopher, detective... you never really know who you'll be greeting when you get up in the mornings." He looked at Lestrade pointedly. "Not like I'd know a whole great deal about Mycroft, but you sounded like you were speaking from personal experience."

He shook his head. "Anyway, your point was: you have to have an image in your mind, it could be something they said, or did, something that made you realize '_This._ This is who they are'. So that no matter what they do, or what they say, you'll know what is an act and what isn't."

"And... did I?" Lestrade asked him. "Did I know?"

John smiled to himself. "You once told me that 'Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And, one day, if we're very, very lucky. He might even be a good one'." The ex-military doctor sipped his beer. "I didn't think it at the time, but later on... when I started to really get to know Sherlock. I realized that you were probably on the right track."

A final gulp emptied John's glass. "And you know what?" Lestrade looked up from his own nearly finished drink. "I've never doubted him since."

Lestrade wondered why hearing that made him inexplicably happy.

But John just smiled at him like he knew and didn't say anything.

* * *

If Mycroft deleted certain CCTV footages of a bar fight later on, nobody mentioned it.

And don't get him started on the footage of Lestrade and John racing each other drunkenly down the empty streets on shopping carts like scooters, whooping at the top of their lungs as they flew through the streets.

He wouldn't be able to explain how that came to happen, anyway.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The next time Sherlock disappeared somewhere in the underbelly of London to contact his Homeless Network, he was shocked to see Lestrade on the side of the street with a few kids standing and sitting around him.

He walked over unnoticed.

"Hey, hey! What about this?" Lestrade yelled out gleefully at whatever they were doing. "Watch this!"

There was a sound of something scraping against the pavement and Sherlock almost fell over in shock when he realized the elderly copper was doing tricks on a skateboard.

Suddenly, Lestrade fell off the board and a chorus of groans and winces went around the small group of teenagers and someone asked if he was okay.

A moment later, Lestrade popped back up. "Oh, there we go! I'm good!" he grinned reassuringly.

He got back on the skateboard and turned it onto its side, balancing carefully before kick-spinning the board back onto its four wheels and landing squarely on it.

A cheer erupted from his rapt audience.

From the shadows of a wall, a hand darted out and Sherlock grabbed one of the group of boys, a member of his underground network.

"Jaimie, it's me!" the detective hissed when the teen moved to retaliate.

"What?" Jaimie, who looked to be around seventeen years old, whined. "What do you want? Can it wait?"

"No, it cannot wait!" Sherlock whispered. "What's going on here?"

"Just having a bit of fun." Jaimie said defensively. "Nothing wrong with that is there?"

"No, I'm just asking how this all came about."

"What's it to you?"

"Just tell me."

"I don't know, really, I just came." Jaimie shrugged. "But Danny said that this bloke over here came visiting Mister Gary from the flat down the street, said he used to live here when he was younger." Another shrug, Sherlock couldn't help but notice that Jaimie's shoulders moved more than his mouth did. "One thing led to another, and here he is."

"I see."

"Can I get back, now?"

"Of course."

Jaimie scampered off back into the group just as Lestrade spun round-and-round on two wheels and stumbled off when he lost his balance.

"Come on!" he exclaimed. "Let's see if we can't teach an old dog new tricks."

* * *

While Lestrade was fully occupied by his skateboard escapades, Sherlock skulked down to 'Mister Gary's flat and had a little chat.

There was a wheezy cough from a dark room before Sherlock saw the sickly man.

"Oi, geddout of 'ere!" a gravelly voice said. "Whatever it is you're sellin' I don' want nothin'!"

Sherlock pushed the door open fully and walked in. "Mister Gary, I presume?"

Gary was a stick-thin ghost of a man with hollow eyes and skin as pale as Sherlock's, unnaturally so. "Whozzat, then?" he queried suspiciously in an almost unintelligible slur, reclining lazily in his seat. "If it's 'bout money then come 'gain some other never. And if you're a pig, then you can fuck right off!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What is your relation with Lestrade?" he question, straight to the point.

Gary had a limp cigarette to his lips and promptly choked out great hacking coughs. "Wot's that, lad?"

"It's not 'lad', it's 'Sir'." Sherlock snapped habitually. "And I believe you heard my question earlier, don't make me repeat myself."

"Oooh, forgive me, Mister _High 'An Migh'y, Sir!_" Gary whooped facetiously through another barrage of coughs.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tightened his fists.

Gary saw his look and took a drag of his cigarette. "I knew 'im." he said. "Greg. 'E used to live here with 'at girl, wot's-'er-face, until he just up an' left. Never saw 'im 'gain."

Sherlock couldn't reign in his surprise fast enough. "Here?" He took in the dark pigsty of an abode.

"Ever'man's 'ouse is 'is castle, an' all." Gary drawled. "We're humble folk, unlike you 'oity-toity _'Sirs'_ with your posh coats and 'igh-class educations. Down on our luck, we poor fucks come 'ere to die with a roof over our 'eads. At least the price match's the place, you could live 'ere on peanuts!" he crowed, waving his cigarette around, spreading the toxic fumes.

Sherlock grimaced and barely refrained from covering his mouth and nose with his scarf. "What was Lestrade doing here?" he hissed.

"Wot's 'e doin' here?" Gary threw his head back and let out a rattling laugh, baring rotten yellow teeth. Then, he leaned forward, shoving his face right up into Sherlock's, tendrils of smoke drifting out of his nostrils like that of a horrible dragon. "Well, 'e was living 'ere, waitin' to die like the rest of us rats!"

Sherlock recoiled violently in disgust and scrambled out of the flat with as much dignity as he could.

Gary's cackles chased him all the way out into the street.

* * *

By the time Sherlock retraced his steps to where he had last seen Lestrade he and the boys had dispersed. After a brief exchange with Jaimie, Sherlock heard that Lestrade had just left.

He took off running in the direction Jaimie pointed out.

He ran down an alley, turned a sharp corner, and there! Lestrade had just melted into a loose crowd. Without further thought, Sherlock plunged in after him.

"Excuse me." he murmured as he cut through the throng. "Coming through!"

There was an alarmingly hard bump and something snagged Sherlock's arm. "Ow! Jesus fuck! What's the big idea?"

"Oh, sorry..." Sherlock turned and came face-to-chin with a large man with Popeye arms and a hard, ugly face twisted into a scowl. Hot coffee was running down his shirt and jeans, a plastic cup rolled on the ground. "Oops, shit."

"'Shit' is right." the man glowered, grip tightening on Sherlock's arm, pulling his other arm back for a punch.

And chaos ensued.

The first blow immediately had Sherlock seeing stars. Not an auspicious beginning to a fight. But still, Sherlock rolled with the punch and lurched back, headbutting the man hard.

The man's grip on Sherlock's arm slipped and the consulting detective shook himself free.

"Oi! What's this?" A few friends of Sherlock's opponent called out, one or two just watching and jeering, two others wandering closer.

But Sherlock had bigger problems, metaphorically and physically.

There was an animalistic roar and the large man charged forward, tackling Sherlock at the waist and physically lifting him a foot or so before throwing him down onto the street.

Sherlock fell, wheezing, breath knocked out of him.

A shadow fell across his face and he opened his eyes to see Lestrade peering down at him with equal parts concern and curiosity. "What the bloody Hell, Sherlock?" he said.

Sherlock scrambled upright. "A little busy, Lestrade!" And he dove straight back into his fight.

Lestrade just stood watching, hands in his pockets, wincing a little when Sherlock was thrown around like a rag-doll. Finally, deciding he was seen enough, he stepped in.

The large man was bent down, reaching for a fallen Sherlock when Lestrade very politely tapped his shoulder from behind and when he turned his head, promptly drove his elbow hard into the back of his neck.

The man fell like a sack of potatoes, out cold.

Sherlock sat panting dumbly for a moment before realizing that Lestrade had his hand extended to him and grabbed it, letting Lestrade pull him to his feet.

A few of the man's friends stood around, a few just laughing at the show and others looking like they might want to continue where their friend had left off.

Sherlock shot a slightly concerned look at Lestrade.

Then, the amnesiac man stepped forward, standing straight and schooling his expression into a firm glare as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his police credentials, showing it to the men standing around. "Anybody else want to disturb the peace, or are we all good?"

There were a few disgruntled mutters but everybody left, two men dragging their unconscious friend off.

Lestrade nodded to himself in satisfaction and turned to walk away. Sherlock fell into step with him. When they reached a main street, Lestrade turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what the Hell were you doing in a place like that?" he exclaimed.

"I needed some information from my Homeless Network." Sherlock snapped back defensively.

"So you decided it was a good idea to waltz around with your bloody tailored shoes, and your nice brand clothes, are you nuts?" Lestrade went on.

"You're right. I have to disinfect, now." Sherlock sighed, picking at his coat. "I like this coat, just hope it hasn't been permanently damaged."

Lestrade lightly smacked the back of Sherlock's head and the consulting detective raised it to look at his livid friend. "_Hello?_ Have you _completely_ ignored the fact that you might've had a lot more damage in there if I hadn't been there? What if you died in a ditch and I didn't even notice?"

"But you did." Sherlock replied simply.

"I might not be there every time." Lestrade retorted, just as firmly. "Just-... change your clothes and tone down the posh accent, would you? It'd save you a lot of Hell and I wouldn't have to worry about saving your sorry arse all the time." he huffed and began walking away without looking to see if Sherlock was following.

Sherlock trailed after him, smirking a little and nursing his bloody nose. "You worry?"

"I may not like you all the time, Sherlock." Lestrade said frankly. "But that doesn't mean you're not my friend, I think, and I'll not let you die on my watch."

Sherlock chuckled. "Now you're starting to sound like Lestrade again."

Lestrade looked at him quickly. "... Really?" There was a hint of a hopeful smile.

"Uh, huh." Sherlock grunted as he gently prodded his nose.

"I'm just-..." Lestrade made a helpless gesture with his hands. "I'm just following my own footsteps, asking myself, trying to figure out when I started to change." At Sherlock's innocent look. "I know you were following me, Sherlock. I saw you go into Gary's." Lestrade shook his head. "And I'm thinking, how did I get from that... to Inspector of Scotland Yard? Why did I change? What made me change? When?"

Sherlock glanced back briefly at the spot Lestrade stepped in and stopped his fight. Probably saving him a thrashing, if not, his life.

"When?" he said quietly. "Right now, I imagine. What changed you was seeing someone who needed help. Why? Because you could not ignore it. Is that simple enough for your little brain to understand?"

"Yeah." Lestrade gave a barely noticeable smile. "I understand."

But, he offered no more information on his past life and Sherlock understood that some things are just meant to remain in the dark.

So he also left it at that.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"You!" Lestrade jumped at the shout.

He turned to see Dimmock stomping over to him from across the bullpen in Scotland Yard. "Hey, Dimmock."

"Lestrade, you're a mate and all, and I respect you alot." Dimmock opened patiently. "But you've _got_ to control your cat!"

Lestrade blinked and realized that Dimmock had a lint roller in one hand and was shedding everywhere. "Oh... sorry!"

"She nearly killed me this morning." Dimmock complained. "And Donovan won't come near me!"

"Just stay on that side of the room, or we'll have problems!" Donovan called, fairly hiding behind a desk.

"You're allergic?" Lestrade frowned. "Always thought you were a cat person."

"Dogs are okay... dogs are good." Donovan replied warily, glaring at the trail of cat hair Dimmock was steadily making across the bullpen.

"Anyway, this is really getting to be a problem." Dimmock grimaced apologetically. "She got into my wardrobe last night..." He gestured toward his appearance.

"Yeah, okay." Lestrade said apologetically. "I'll take care of it."

* * *

The following afternoon found Lestrade shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other on Mycroft's doorstep.

A minute after pressing the doorbell, Mycroft opened the door. He looked a little surprised. "Good afternoon, Gregory." he managed.

Lestrade turned one palm up helplessly, his other hand holding Marsh securely to his side in the crook of his elbow, his duffle bag of overnight necessities hung on one shoulder. "Look what the cat dragged in." he said ruefully.

Mycroft couldn't stop the helpless splutter of laughter fast enough and immediately clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, do excuse me."

"Marsh and I've been troubling Dimmock and Donovan for far too long." Lestrade grimaced. "Anthea said I should probably come over." He saw Mycroft's expression. "I'm guessing she didn't tell you I'd be stopping by."

"I'm afraid I've heard nothing of the sort." Mycroft admitted.

"Yeah, sorry about that." Lestrade said. "S-should I leave?"

"Absolutely not." Mycroft huffed and stepped aside to let Lestrade inside. Marsh was immediately set down to explore. "I'm afraid the repair to your flat won't be finished until at least day after tomorrow, you're welcome to stay until then."

A beat.

"... If it's not too uncomfortable."

Lestrade made a 'oops' face. "God, sorry! That-... I should've... this is a bad idea, isn't it?"

"No, no, don't say that." Mycroft said hastily.

"I really don't remember if I have any other friends that I can sleep over with." Lestrade carried on, grimacing.

"No, really it's fine." Mycroft assured him firmly. "Stay as long as you need."

"Thanks. I really mean it." Lestrade said with feeling.

"You're just relieved that you won't have to camp out in Baker Street." Mycroft teased.

"Alright, guilty." Lestrade chuckled back.

"I would offer to make you tea, but I'm afraid I must be going to work now." Mycroft told him apologetically. "I trust you can find everything you need on your own?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah."

"And please, don't hesitate to call Anthea if there is something you need."

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Then... good afternoon."

"See you, Mycroft."

They heard the car pull up on the side of the street and with a finally goodbye, Mycroft left the house.

The moment the front door was closed and locked, Lestrade turned and repeatedly knocked his forehead against the wall. "Stupid, stupid, stupid... !"

Marsh tilted her head a little and watched the odd display with indifference.

"Christ..." Lestrade stood, forehead pressed against the cool wall and covered his face with his hands. But this was really a bad idea, after all, wasn't it? Who knew what sort of thoughts were going through Mycroft's head right now? Well, Lestrade didn't really mind the situation, but he_ was_ the one who lost his memory.

"Fuck my life." he groaned through his fingers.

Marsh mewed and hesitantly pawed at his jeans as if prodding a time bomb.

Lestrade turned and picked her up. "Forget it. Let's get something to eat." he said decisively. "Let's just full-on panic when Mycroft comes back home, how does that sound?"

Marsh purred in response.

* * *

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his PA in the back of his car. "Something you wish to tell me, Anthea?"

Anthea looked up from her Blackberry briefly, doe eyes wide and innocent. "Hm? Oh yes! Lestrade needs a place to stay. You don't mind, do you?" she informed him as if just remembering.

"Some day, I will get you back." Mycroft sighed in a long-suffering way. "You will fall in love with a lovely person and I will constantly cause incidents to keep you on your toes."

Anthea let out a musical laugh. "When that time comes, give it your best shot, Sir."

"Oh, I will."

* * *

After dinner had passed and no sign of Mycroft, Lestrade decided to take a shower and head off to bed.

After a good scrub-down, he stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist and scrubbing his hair with another. "Marsh?" he called out when he saw no sign of the cat. "Where are you, you useless woman?"

He heard a faint mew and froze when he saw the door to Mycroft's bedroom open a crack.

He paled. "Oh, you _didn't...!_"

He rushed in and flipped the light switch on to see that Marsh made a home in Mycroft's wardrobe of expensive suits. "Oh, shit...!" He looked at the extremely satisfied-looking feline. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Marsh purred happily and snuggled deeper.

* * *

It was late when Mycroft returned home.

It had been an excruciatingly long evening of people talking his ears off, countries threatening to nuke Great Britain, Sherlock and John winding up in a jail cell in Scotland Yard, and a dinner consisting entirely of small bite-sized morsels.

He sighed, throwing his keys in a bowl that was situated on the kitchen table and greedily downing a glass of water.

Then, he shuffled out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie with a relieved sigh and wandered toward his room.

In the hallway, he found Marsh mewing insistently and pawing at his closed bedroom door.

"Go away, Marsh!" Lestrade called out grumpily from inside, surprising Mycroft. "This is all your fault, you know! Mycroft is going to _kill me_, and chop me up into bite-sized pieces, and throw us out of his house, and _never speak to us again! _... But maybe not in that order."

Curious now, Mycroft nudged past Marsh and softly opened his door and peeked in.

What he saw was Lestrade sitting cross-legged on the floor in nothing but a towel, surrounded by his suits, and tirelessly going over them with a lint roller. Although, it was quite safe to say that all thought had efficiently derailed at 'Gregory sitting cross-legged on the floor in nothing but a towel'.

He let out a strangled "Oh!" and shut the door again.

From his place outside the door, he could hear Lestrade let out a strong string of expletives. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! Mycroft!" he called out through his panicked search for something to cover himself up. "I promise you, this isn't what it looks like. I mean, not like I know exactly _what_ this looks like. But I assure you, whatever it looks like, _this isn't it!_"

Mycroft fought down a silly grin and pressed his cool hands against his warm cheeks. "I'm sure you have a good explanation." he replied.

A moment later, the door opened and Lestrade stumbled out in Mycroft's dressing gown, hastily tying the strings around himself. "First of all, I'd like you to know that this is all Marsh's diabolical scheming to kill me." he declared.

"Noted." Mycroft replied, lips pressed hard together to keep them from grinning. Or, God forbid, laughing.

"Okay, so what happened was-..." Lestrade began explaining when there was a flash of white. Marsh had grabbed their moment of distraction to dart back into Mycroft's room. "No, Marsh! I just cleaned those-...!"

Marsh immediately dove into a pile of Mycroft's clean suits and curled up, purring in pleasure.

"Ah, I see what happened." Mycroft said as Lestrade leaned against the door frame and he peered into the room over his shoulder.

"She's a demon, that's what she is." Lestrade whined. "Why did I take her in?"

"Because, the last time you took in a stray, it went by the name 'Sherlock Holmes' and you were confident that you could handle anything else the world threw at you." Mycroft replied, deadpanned.

"Well, I was wrong." Lestrade responded flatly.

"Despite the way you two treat each other, you really do like each other, but God forbid you'd actually tell each other that. It's quite similar to the relation you have with Sherlock. You and Marsh get along, in a very love-hate way." Mycroft chuckled.

"Do not." Lestrade growled.

"Do too. You're just in denial, and she's a cat."

Lestrade shook his head with a sigh and turned to Mycroft. "I'm really sorry about this."

"I promise I will not kill you, chop you up, throw you out, or never speak to you again, in any variable order." Mycroft smirked.

Lestrade flushed and punched his arm. "Oh, _sod off!_"

Mycroft finally allowed himself the laugh that had been building up since the beginning of the incident. It seemed like all his stress and exhaustion from work had simply vanished.

"What should we do about the witch?" Lestrade asked him, watching Marsh doze.

"Leave her, I'll have Anthea come by tomorrow with something different to wear." Mycroft shrugged.

"I feel really bad about this." Lestrade grimaced.

"No need for that." Mycroft waved him off breezily. "It is always interesting to watch you struggle through daily life."

"Hey now."

Mycroft chuckled. "It's late, you should get some sleep."

Lestrade glanced at the clock. "Christ, is that the time? I really do need to go to bed."

"Goodnight, Gregory."

"Goodnight, Mycroft." Lestrade responded. "And if Marsh climbs on your face in the night, just shove her off. She's used to it by now."

"I'll keep that in mind." Mycroft smiled as Lestrade disappeared into his room.

Mycroft entered his room and closed the door behind him a good way, leaving just a crack open for the feline, should she decide to leave. Then he bent down, hand outstretched to Marsh. "Here, Marsh. Come here."

Marsh opened her eyes lazily and gave an ear twitch.

"Do you remember me?" Mycroft cooed.

After a moment of contemplation, Marsh decided to get up and trotted over to Mycroft for pets.

"You really are a troublemaker for Gregory, aren't you?" Marsh mewed. "In fact, I'm half convinced that you are Anthea personified as a cat. It stands to reason that if I have one, Gregory should also."

Marsh purred, nudging the top of her head against Mycroft's palm and Mycroft could swear she smiled. If cats could smile. And Mycroft decided that they could.

Then, the feline turned away primly and wandered out of his room, her nest of expensive suits abandoned.

Mycroft watched her go for a moment or two before narrowing his eyes. "You be careful, my dear, or I will sic Anthea on you. Fight fire with fire."

A lazy mew drifted back out from the hallway.

"But Lord help us if you two form an alliance."

A purr.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

"Marsh, you useless woman, you make it very hard for me to brush my teeth in the morning." Lestrade grumbled when he saw Marsh curled up in the sink without any indication of her moving anytime soon.

Marsh spared him an unimpressed look and promptly set about ignoring him.

"Oh, you're going to be like that, then?" Lestrade huffed. "Well, we'll see about that."

Then, he maliciously turned the faucet on.

One of these days, he'd learn better. But today was not that day.

Mycroft shot up in bed, wide awake at the frightful hiss and horrified yells coming from the bathroom.

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry!" Lestrade exclaimed. "I yield! I surrender! Have mercy, you violent witch!"

Mycroft half smiled and struggled out of bed five minutes later.

He found Lestrade sitting on the kitchen table, legs swinging in the air absently as he treated his battle wounds.

There were two new scratches and an awful lot of blood on his face.

Lestrade scowled. "I tell you, Mycroft, that Marsh of ours is no good." he said as he applied a bandage to his face with a wince.

His first attempt to plaster the bandage on himself concluded a lopsided finish and he had to peel the damn thing back off to try again.

Mycroft stopped him. "Here, let me."

Lestrade handed the bandage over reluctantly and Mycroft taped it on without a hitch, then helped him wipe the blood off his face.

"Any other injuries?" Mycroft asked him.

"Don't worry, I already fixed up the ones on my hands." Lestrade lifted his hands for observation.

Mycroft took them and turned them over first one way, then the other. Then, he nodded, satisfied at the job well done.

There was an awkward beat of silence.

Then, Lestrade coughed. "Hey Mycroft, did you know that bananas are actually biologically classified as berries?" he blurted out.

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. "Um-..." He quickly dropped Lestrade's hand. "I-... was not aware of that."

"Well, I think it's weird." Lestrade continued as if nothing had happened. "I mean, how could they be berries? I just heard it somewhere and I couldn't get over the fact."

Mycroft smiled at the nonstop babble that was flowing effortlessly out of Lestrade's mouth.

"It's been tormenting me since day before yesterday and I decided that if I must suffer, you should too." Lestrade said as if reading Mycroft's mind. "I can no longer trust bananas, they've led me to believe a horrible lie." he carried on melodramatically.

"Misery loves company." Mycroft grumbled under his breath as he moved toward the coffee machine. "Why didn't you just research the matter on Google, or Wikipedia?"

"Wiki-what?" Lestrade shook his head with a 'tsk'. "And anyway, I don't have a computer."

"You do." Mycroft told him, yawning.

"I do, but I don't remember the password... it sucks." Lestrade stuck his bottom lip out in a pout and blew out a petulant breath, fluffing his bangs.

"Your password is incorrect." Mycroft stated calmly without turning.

"Yeah, Mycroft." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I got that, thanks."

Mycroft turned and looked at him pointedly.

Lestrade returned the gaze with a 'what _now?_' look.

Mycroft continued to stare until understanding came over Lestrade's face.

"Oh, you're not serious..." Lestrade let out.

"As you explained your clever scenario: Once you got your password wrong once, your computer will helpfully tell you that your password is 'Incorrect'." Mycroft told him patiently.

Lestrade leaned back, hands supporting him on the table and he burst out laughing. "Well that's-..." he trailed off, gasping for breath. "That's something. God... wow, I'm such a dork."

"Indeed." Mycroft smiled, returning to his coffee.

"I go from one second wondering why bananas are berries, and finding out that my password is 'Incorrect'." Lestrade mused thoughtfully.

"All much too exciting for me to fully appreciate before my morning coffee." Mycroft chimed in, handing him a mug.

Lestrade blew it for a moment before sipping. "Oh my God." he moaned. "Mycroft. How do you exist?" he took another sip. "Mph. _Gold._ Mycroft, this coffee is _amazing_. Why haven't you started your own coffee shop yet? You should start a chain of them, they'll pop up all over the world in no time! And then after a few months, with a snap of your fingers, you could shut them all down simultaneously and the World Powers will have no choice but to come crawling to you,_ begging_ you to take over the world. It will be a nice, nonviolent, and bloodless way to dominate the world. It could be a nice hobby in place of hassling Sherlock."

Then, with a happy little noise, he padded away.

Mycroft stood staring after him for a moment. "Well, that was-... extremely descriptive."

* * *

"... And he goes on so, always throwing papers about and shooting the walls." Mrs. Hudson waved her hand blithely.

"Shooting the walls?" Lestrade gaped.

"Says they have it coming." the elderly landlady whispered conspiratorially.

"But they're just walls." Lestrade whispered back.

"Well, according to Sherlock's declarations, they must not be harmless nor helpless." Mrs. Hudson chortled at Sherlock's antics.

"but-... but walls!" Lestrade went on, disbelieving. _"Why?"_

"Oh, don't worry, his lovely older brother has people on the payroll specifically to patch them up." Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly. "Lovely fellows. They talk just as much as statues."

"Oh, nice."

The two had been down at the grocery store shopping for Sherlock and John who were out on a case. Since the first time Lestrade had tried to pursue them, Mycroft had forbidden him from doing so ever again.

And when Lestrade tried to disobey, the damn government agent threatened to deprive him of his glorious coffee, and that was that.

So here he was, stuck grocery shopping for adventurers who didn't have time to shop for their own health. He was half convinced that Mrs. Hudson was actually a saint... or Sherlock's personal guardian angel.

"Don't you think that shooting inside the flat is a bit dangerous?" Lestrade asked her, slightly concerned. "He could accidentally hit someone-... I mean, he shouldn't be shooting gun at all!"

"Try telling him that." Mrs. Hudson shook her head hopelessly.

"Don't people panic and call the cops?" Lestrade continued.

Mrs. Hudson just looked at him, smiling. "Dearie, we're friends with the police." she sweetly reminded.

"Erm..."

They continued chatting pleasantly along when Lestrade happened to overhear something that caught his attention.

Two men who had just pulled up on the street got out of their car and approached a young boy no older than six, who was playing with toy cars on the pavement.

"Hello." One of the men greeted mildly. "Are you Peter March?"

The boy stopped and looked up, nodding. "Who are you?"

The man offered a stiff smile and pulled out his credentials, flashing them for a brief moment before whisking it away again, too fast to clearly examine. "I'm a policeman," he said, "I work with your father. He asked me to come pick you up."

The boy thought about it for a moment, frowning. "Why?"

The man shrugged. "I was not informed of the reason."

"Daddy never sent anybody from the police to pick me up before." Peter remarked suspiciously.

"Well, there's a first time for everything." The man said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder to guide him to his vehicle.

"Wait! My cars!" Peter wailed, twisting and reaching his little arms out helplessly to his discarded toys.

"We can come back for them later." the man said gruffly.

And suddenly, Lestrade was there with a hand on the man's forearm. He stared the man solidly in the eye. "If it's all the same to you, I think it would be better if the boy stayed until his father comes to pick him up. It's safer that way, see?"

"And who might you be?" The policeman asked testily.

Lestrade pulled out his own credentials. Mycroft had often tried to stop him from carrying it around, but there seemed to be a special place in his pocket that felt empty without it. "I'm DI Lestrade." he told him. "Maybe if you called this boy's father up and asked him to explain the urgency to have this boy down at the station, I would appreciate it. There are many dangerous criminals down there, after all. It's no place for a boy."

The man blinked blankly, expression unreadable.

"We can never be too careful." Lestrade added.

The man finally let out a sigh and removed his hand from the boy's shoulder. "Well, I was just going back to the station anyway, I forgot my phone there." Then he turned and got back into his car.

With a roar, the car surged off the curb.

Peter tugged on the edge of Lestrade's coat twice, practically melding his small body into Lestrade's leg. "That man was scary." he said. "He felt bad."

Lestrade and he watched the car disappear down the street and turn a corner. "I hear you." he muttered under his breath.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Sherlock and John returned to Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson alone in her flat, brewing tea.

"Where's Greg?" John asked curiously as he shrugged his jacket off. "He out?"

"Oh, welcome back dearies." Mrs. Hudson hummed. "And yes, Lestrade is not here at the moment."

"Oh, shame. I thought you two were going to finally dust off that chessboard you keep talking about." John went on conversationally.

"We hoped we would, but things didn't turn out." Mrs. Hudson sighed sadly.

"Why? Something happen while we were out?" John asked, mildly concerned. "Is his memory coming back?"

"No..." Mrs. Hudson trailed off. "But we had an odd meeting on our way back from shopping."

Sherlock finally bothered himself into tuning in. "Odd? How?"

Both Mrs. Hudson and John could see the consulting detective whirring to life behind Sherlock's eyes.

"Well, we're not entirely sure it was anything..." Mrs. Hudson began. "But there was a man who approached a boy on the street claiming to work with his father and that he sent him to pick the boy up. The boy said something about his father being quite insistent on always picking him up himself and something about it struck Lestrade as odd so he chased the man off. We don't know what's going on so Lestrade told me he'd stay with the boy and the aunt he was visiting until his father or mother returned for him, just in case."

"Oh..." Sherlock looked considerably disappointed.

"The man said he was a police officer." Mrs. Hudson offered to cheer him up.

"Oh!" Sherlock perked up. "Possible kidnapping of a police officer's son?"

"Well, we should be glad that Greg was there to stop it, if that was the case." John said, exasperated at his flatmate.

"Yes..." Mrs. Hudson hummed quietly. "If that was the case."

* * *

"So, you're a policeman like Daddy?" Peter asked Lestrade as the two of them sat on the front steps of a building and played with his toy cars.

"Um, yeah." Lestrade shrugged modestly. "Detective Inspector."

It was nothing to boast about, he didn't remember it at all.

"Do you know my daddy?" Peter asked him next.

"I don't know, what's his name?" Lestrade coaxed gently.

"Detective Chief Inspector David March." Peter recited slowly from memory, laboring on the large words.

Lestrade smiled at him. "Wow, that's quite a mouthful. Do you know what that title means?"

Peter scrunched up his face in thoughtful silence. "That he's really, _really_ good at catching bad guys?"

Lestrade let out a chuckle. "Yep, that's exactly what it means. He's one rank higher than me, so he's even better than me!"

"Are you good at catching bad guys?" Peter asked him excitedly.

Um... that was a difficult question to answer when he didn't remember. "Uh... I hope I am." Lestrade finally replied.

"I think you're good." Peter said sagely. "I saw you in the papers so you must be good."

"Well, I won't question your wisdom." Lestrade smiled. "You're a very smart boy, aren't you?"

"Yup!" Peter grinned broadly, puffing out his chest. "Daddy says I'm just about smart enough to be a policeman, too!"

Just then, a car pulled up and a uniformed man stepped out.

Peter immediately stood up, grinning. "Daddy!" he squealed, launching himself at the elderly man.

"Pete!" the man exclaimed, catching him and spinning him around, lifting the boy clear off the ground. "I missed you!"

"You_ just_ dropped me off_ today!_" Peter whined through his smile. "You say that every time!"

"Well that's because I always miss you." DCI March replied, putting his son back down onto the ground. "You've been behaving for Aunt Martha?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Then, DCI March finally noticed Lestrade. "Oh, hello." he greeted amicably. "It's-... Detective Inspector Lestrade, wasn't it?"

"That's me." Lestrade nodded, standing up and brushing himself down.

"I heard you were on a sick leave." DCI March said conversationally.

Lestrade shrugged sheepishly. "Still sick, Sir."

Peter looked stricken. "Are you okay?"

"Just fine." Lestrade quickly reassured him.

"Daddy got cut once and had to stay at the hospital." Peter told him, wide-eyed.

"Um..." Lestrade's hand absently brushed over the scar where he had been shot. "It's nothing serious, I just fell and bumped my head." he lied.

"Okay." Peter seemed comforted by that.

"Anyway." Lestrade turned back to DCI March. "Did that officer you sent come back alright, then?"

DCI March looked confused. "What officer?"

Lestrade paused, puzzled. "The one you sent to pick Peter up and bring him to the station." he told his senior.

Colour seemed to drain from the man's face. "I-... I didn't send anybody."

* * *

"I'm sure the boy and his relatives will be alright." Mycroft said, suddenly shaking Lestrade out of his thoughtful trance.

Lestrade blinked once and shook his head. "I-... how did you know?"

Mycroft smiled at him indulgently with an infuriating expression saying: It's cute that you think I wouldn't. "Wouldn't you like to know." he said.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Right." He went right back to staring out of his car window.

They were currently driving back from Baker Street where Mycroft had picked Lestrade up from.

It took Lestrade a moment to realize that they weren't driving toward Mycroft's flat. "Mycroft, where are we going?" he asked for a moment when he was sure that they were on the wrong road.

"Well..." Mycroft said slowly. "My men have repaired your flat. I thought you would like to see how it is."

"Ah..." It had felt so natural living with Mycroft that he had nearly forgotten about his own home! "I see."

The car slowed and rolled to a halt. Both men got out.

"The last time I saw this place, water was spilling out of the front door." Lestrade said as they made the short trek up the dry few front steps to his door. "An auspicious beginning, I suppose."

Mycroft smiled wryly as he pulled out the door's spare key from his pocket and unlocked it. He was just about to twist the handle and open the door when Lestrade's hand came down on his in a restricting manner.

"Mycroft, if I walk through that door to find that you've had my flat painted pink..." he trailed off, expression dead serious.

Mycroft cracked an amused smile. "I assure you, Gregory, I have done no such thing."

Lestrade grinned back and dropped his hand. "Okay. I believe you." he said.

"Thank you."

Mycroft opened the door and walked in first. True to his word, the flat was its usual colour.

"But I make no promises about any damage Marsh may have done."

Suddenly, he was being none too gently nudged aside as Lestrade pushed his way past from behind him and deeper into the flat, cursing under his breath.

"Dammit Mycroft!"

Mycroft snorted to himself softly and closed the front door after them.

"No! Marsh, no! Close that window!" Lestrade yelled from somewhere inside. "No talking to strange cats, and no Romeo and Juliet-ing. We're not having any of that in my house!"


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Lestrade woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of something scratching against his bedroom window. He blinked once, startled and still half-asleep, until the scratching noise came again, forcing him to get up and see what was the matter.

He parted his curtains to see two glowing yellow orbs glimmering back. "Fuck!" he hissed, startled, until he realized that it was just Marsh trying to get in.

He opened the window and the feline loped over the window sill and onto the floor agilely. "Marsh, you nearly gave me a heart attack." Lestrade protested weakly. "How did you get up here, anyway? It's the second floor." He summed it up to the fact that Marsh was a cat, and clearly Satan's minion.

The cat promptly made herself comfortable on the foot of his bed. "Hey, you've got your own cat bed, don't you?" Lestrade whined sleepily, closing and locking his window again before drawing the curtains shut.

Marsh mewed imploringly.

"Fine." Lestrade grumbled, climbing back into bed. "But if you sit on my face in the morning, I will throw you off." he warned.

He felt marsh nuzzle his foot from on top of his covers and he closed his eyes.

Ten minutes later, there was another scratch at his window.

Owner and pet opened their eyes and exchanged wary glances.

"It's two in the morning." Lestrade whispered to Marsh. "If I ignore it, it'll go away."

And then he remembered that it was two in the morning and something was scratching his window, not ringing his doorbell. If he ignored it, his flat would probably get broken into.

With a groan, he forced himself out of bed a second time and staggered toward the window.

Oh, wait. There was probably something more dangerous than Marsh out there at his window. And that was saying alot.

He wondered if he should go looking around for a bat, or a poker to defend himself with.

The disturbance continued.

"Ah, fuck it." Lestrade groaned and pulled the curtains open forcefully, annoyed. _"What?"_

Sherlock recoiled slightly, startled by Lestrade's outburst and the sudden parting of the curtains right in front of his face. Lestrade was again led to wonder how he had gotten to his second floor window and again summed it up to the fact that Sherlock was a cat, and clearly a minion of Satan.

Sherlock knocked on the window pane with an expectant look.

Lestrade rolled his eyes up into his skull with a very put-upon sigh and opened the window. "You are related to the damn cat." he said flatly as he watched Sherlock curl his tall body through the open window and make the short jump to the floor, landing in a feral crouch, on all fours.

The consulting detective fairly unfurled his body, straightening himself. "I'll take that as a compliment." he said tersely. "I usually find that they are more competent than some humans." he sniffed imperiously.

Lestrade shuffled slowly across the room and flicked the lights on. "Sherlock, seriously, it's two in the morning-..." He turned.

And froze.

Sherlock unwound his scarf and gingerly dabbed a drop of blood away from his lip with it as it was already splotched a little with blood, ruined.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Lestrade demanded sharply, crossing the room in three long strides. "Who did this?"

Sherlock winced as he moved his scarf up to a laceration just above his eyebrow.

"Sherlock!"

"I need your first aid kit." Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. "Fine, come on." He led Sherlock to the bathroom.

Sherlock threw his scarf and coat into a messy pile on the floor and sat on the closed toilet seat as Lestrade rummaged around in the compartment under the sink for the first aid kit he suspected he would have.

"What's the worst of it?" he asked as he brought out bandages.

"Just this." Sherlock pointed at the spot of blood on his mouth. "And this." His eyebrow. "And I may need stitches for this." He rolled up his torn shirtsleeve, baring an ugly tear in the flesh of his forearm, an inch or two long.

"Jesus." Lestrade breathed, but began cleaning the wound. "What happened?"

"I was on a case." Sherlock told him. "Got caught snooping and had to take a shortcut through a closed window.

"And?" Lestrade frowned. Sherlock was right, he'd need stitches for this one.

"You'd be interested to know that at least one of the men who approached DCI March's son today were not who they said they were." Sherlock informed him calmly. "I have yet to deduce who and what they are, or what they want."

Lestrade twitched and Sherlock hissed as the man accidentally agitated his cut with the cotton he was using to clean it.

"Sherlock, you were investigating-...?" Lestrade cut himself off, breathing deeply to calm himself. "You should have let the police handle it! It's one of their own involved."

"But-..."

"Sherlock, you injured yourself over _boredom_, this might not even be a case!" Lestrade continued, cutting Sherlock off.

"But you-..."

"What the Hell do I know? I'm not a police officer, as far as I know, I have no skills or experience!" Lestrade hissed. "I may have stopped a kidnapping case, and I might not have! I don't know! But please - _please_ try not to get yourself killed over speculations."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and Lestrade began bandaging his wound.

"You've never been wrong." Sherlock said at length. "Not when there were children involved."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and stretched a band-aid over the cut on his eyebrow. "How do you figure?" he grumbled.

"I've known you to occasionally be mistaken about adults." Sherlock continued. "They lie... they've learned how to. But the children are honest, always. Even when they try to lie, you somehow know."

"Oh, yeah?" Lestrade huffed as he cleaned up and put his first aid kit away.

"Yes." Sherlock replied frankly. "I should know."

Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned back on the edge of the sink.

"When we first met, the first thing you did was refer to me as 'kid'. Then, you arrested me for possession of narcotics... and when I blindly fought back, you just snorted and called me a child." Sherlock huffed. "Said it was silly to misbehave because it was the only way to get people to pay attention to me." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I was so mad at you because we both knew you were right." Then, he shrugged his shoulders. "But you at least did not discriminate me for it... it made you tolerable to work with."

There was silence for a second too long to be comfortable and Lestrade let out a sigh. "You want me to call you a cab, or do you just want to sleep on the couch?"

Sherlock poked gingerly around the laceration on his injured arm. "I'll just call John and tell him I'm staying over." he mumbled.

"_Don't_ call." Lestrade snapped sensibly. "It's two in the morning. Just text him to let him know where you are when he wakes up."

"Okay."


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning was one of those rare mornings where Lestrade woke up without a goddess of war on his bed trying to kill him.

It was pleasantly surprising.

Lestrade peeked into his sitting room to make sure Sherlock didn't disappear sometime during the night and was satisfied to see him still snoring softly on the sofa with Marsh perched comfortably on his chest.

She was an ideal alarm. If Sherlock tried to sneak out, Marsh would probably kill him... literally. There was no way Lestrade was missing that.

Then, he wandered into the kitchenette and remembered that he needed to buy more milk and fruits.

"Ugh, shite." he grumbled and changed into a pair of jeans and long sleeves to go out shopping. He left a note on the kitchen counter, telling Sherlock where he was before leaving.

He ran into Anthea on his way to the store. And when he said 'he ran into her' that meant that Lestrade was walking down the street when a car suddenly pulled up and Anthea joined him without warning.

"Good morning." the woman greeted.

"Hey, Anthea." Lestrade yawned, still a little groggy. "What's up?"

"Just checking in for news of Sherlock." Anthea answered.

"Ah, Mycroft's emissary." Lestrade nodded sagely.

"He's worried. When Sherlock comes to you, Mycroft usually keeps his distance, gives you guys space, and waits on you to text or call to say what's the matter and if everything's alright." Anthea shrugged. "I guess he forgot that you didn't remember how these things worked."

Lestrade snorted. "Sherlock's fine. It's just a few scratches."

"That's good to know." Anthea typed away on her Blackberry.

"He was investigating the incident involving DCI March and his son, Peter." Lestrade continued.

"Ah... that's vexing."

"Yeah." Lestrade sighed deeply.

"Are you okay?" Anthea asked him.

"He said I was never wrong about a kid." Lestrade told her. "He knew I was worried about Peter so he knew something must be wrong."

"And was he right?" Anthea pointedly asked.

"I don't know." Lestrade shrugged. "But he got into a pretty tight spot because of it. Me and my big mouth."

Anthea snorted softly. "Well, somebody tried to hurt him... which leads me to believe that he was onto something."

"Maybe."

"You know, despite the many unpleasant things he says about your police work and deductive reasoning, he actually does hold your opinion in relatively high regard." Anthea told him. "And he's not the only Holmes who has been snooping around in this case."

"For God's sakes!" Lestrade groaned. "Where's the bloody crime?"

"It hasn't been fully been committed yet." Anthea smirked. "Thanks to you. But what happens when they try again?"

"Do you think they will?" Lestrade asked, worried.

"Two of the most intelligent men in the world seem to think it's possible." Anthea replied simply.

"On my say so?" Lestrade scoffed incredulously.

"On what they can and cannot deduce about your suspicions and your abilities." Anthea told him firmly.

"Abilities that I've_ lost_ with my memories, can't they see that?" Lestrade frowned.

"No, they can't." Anthea shook her head. "You may not be the Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade what we know, but we know that you _are_ Gregory Lestrade, and to us that name is synonymous with 'Justice', 'Protection', and 'Valor'." She jabbed a finger into Lestrade's chest. "And that's something that is distinctly 'Gregory Lestrade', and you don't need skill or experience to prove you have those traits. They don't teach you those things in the Academy."

"Something about that incident didn't sit right with you." She lifted a plastic bag she was holding and handed it to him. "If you have a hunch, I suggest you act on it." Then, she smiled mysteriously and disappeared back into the car and drove off.

Lestrade opened the bag to find milk, fruits, and everything else Lestrade had forgotten he needed.

* * *

Donovan was in the middle of paperwork when her phone rang. "Boss, please tell me there's murder in the air." she groaned before she even remembered Lestrade's amnesia. "Oh, God, sorry!"

Lestrade just laughed good-naturedly. _"Is that how you always talk to me?"_

"Yep, eighty percent of the time when there's no reporters around to quote us." Donovan wryly said.

_"You ask me for murders?"_

"You're good at digging them up." Donovan huffed out a breath. "And I mean that in the best sort of ways."

_"Okay."_ Lestrade chuckled._ "Anyway, I need you to do something for me."_

"Name it."

_"Can you search up license plates?"_ he asked.

"Good as done, why do you need it?"

_"Um... I'm following a hunch."_

"Good enough for me."

_"Donovan..."_

"What's up?"

_"Isn't this kind of... working against procedural?"_

"Nothing wrong about following a superior's hunch."

_"Even if that superior isn't exactly on duty, and the case may wind up being nothing?"_

"As long as nobody's going to ask me to testify about it in court."

_"Oh... oh, shit. I run a bloody circus. Nobody follows the rules."_ Lestrade moaned.

"Welcome back to the Freak Show, Ringmaster."

_"'Freak Show'?"_

"The Freak acts enough like the star of the show."

_"Donovan... just check a number for me."_

"That's the spirit! Alright, give me."

Lestrade recited as much of the numberplate, of the car the faux policeman drove, as he remembered.

_"And I need to know something else."_

"What?"

Lestrade told her what he thought of the may-or-may-not-be case.

"That's an interesting point of view." Donovan nodded slowly to herself. "I'll ask around."

_"Thanks, Donovan."_

"Don't mention it. I mean, seriously, don't. I don't want to get sacked."

_"I won't tell if you won't."_

"Deal."

* * *

"So, what's on the latest news?" Lestrade greeted Mycroft over coffee.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft spluttered, taken aback.

"Anthea told me you and Sherlock were snooping on a non-case." Lestrade told him bluntly. "So? Give me."

Mycroft muttered something under his breath about a 'snitch'. "The man who you met briefly with Peter March is known only as 'Armitage', and his driver 'Al'. They are mercenaries. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to track down whoever had hired them, yet."

"Well, if you find out something, let me know." Lestrade said.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "Please don't tell me you're getting involved in this case."

Lestrade held up a finger. "One: we don't know it's a case yet." Another finger was raised. "Two:_ I'm_ the policeman, and if it _is_ a case, I'm getting involved." A third joined the first two. "Three: if it was a kidnapping attempt, I stopped it. These mercenaries know who I am and that I work for Scotland Yard. I'm already involved."

"Fine, fine." Mycroft sighed, exasperated and lifted a finger himself. "But if you sense there is even a hint of danger..."

"I will call you, the police, and brace myself." Lestrade replied flatly.

"No, you will call me, the police, and draw back!" Mycroft insisted.

"Mycroft!"

"Gregory!"

"I can take care of myself!"

"I don't doubt it, but I would rather you didn't actively chase down the prospect of danger." Mycroft tried to reason.

"I'm not." Lestrade growled. "I'm chasing down assholes who may have tried to kidnap a child. Anthea told me to act on my instinct, and my instinct says 'I'm going to get these guys and you can't stop me'."

"I-..." Lestrade raised his eyebrows. Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. "Very well, have it your way."

"I will, thanks." Lestrade grinned.

"You are infuriating."

"I know."


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Mrs. Hudson came home to Baker Street to find Lestrade alone in the flat.

"Hello, dear." she greeted cheerfully. "Where are my other boys?"

Lestrade smiled, he liked that Mrs. Hudson called them 'her boys'. Being around her really relieved the shock of hearing that he had lost his own parents.

"Oh, they're out." he shrugged back. "You know how they are."

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Hudson puttered around. "Are they on a case?"

"Well..." Lestrade also enjoyed the fiercely protective look in Mrs. Hudson's eye every time someone even hinted at 'her boys' getting into danger. "There's this thing..."

"Oh no, you boys..." Mrs. Hudson tutted. "What are you up to?"

Lestrade grimaced.

"This is about that Peter you met the other day, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson asked perceptively.

"Ah... you've got to be psychic." Lestrade groaned. "Nothing get's past you, does it?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled a little and wagged her finger at him. "And don't you forget it. Tea?"

"I'd love some, thanks."

Mrs. Hudson began moving around, brewing tea. "Has Mycroft banned you from the case again?" she asked sympathetically.

"Ah, no." Lestrade shrugged. "We came to a compromise, I'd let the police and Sherlock look for the criminals, and he'd let me handle finding motives and other boring stuff that goes on behind desks."

"Oh, that's lovely."

"And in other news, Dimmock thought I might like to take some courses in police procedural, he thinks that maybe, since I should know it all so well, that it might help my memory come back." Lestrade told her. "He and Donovan are going to get me started as soon as possible."

"Such a wonderful boy, that sergeant, too." Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly, despite never meeting Dimmock and only running into Donovan during drugs busts and at the hospital.

"So, what's new with you?" Lestrade asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, I've been thinking of making my own garden next Spring." Mrs. Hudson giggled. "I've been looking around for plants I want to grow."

"Oh, that's sounds great!" Lestrade smiled. "If you need any help..."

"Thanks, dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled gratefully and set tea for them.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked when he broke into Lestrade's flat at eight in the evening to find Lestrade curled around his laptop, looking bored.

"Homework." Lestrade groaned. "How did you get in?"

"The way I always do." Sherlock threw back primly.

"Illegally." Lestrade drawled absently.

Sherlock smirked at him, evidently pleased by his retort.

"Where's John?" Lestrade asked, putting his laptop away. "Wasn't he with you?"

"Yes but..." Sherlock trailed off.

"Oh God." Lestrade sighed. "What happened?"

"He's down at the station writing his report." Sherlock shrugged. "He told me to get back to Baker Street and he'll meet us there."

"Wait, what report? Why?" Lestrade said, confused.

"For the body, of course." Sherlock waved him off breezily. "I decided to stop by and pick you up. The cab's waiting, by the way."

"I-... what?" Lestrade grabbed his jacket, nevertheless, and followed Sherlock out into the cab.

"We separated to cover more distance and John stumbled across a body so he called the police and told me to steer clear." Sherlock explained.

The cabbie glanced at them in the rear view mirror, worried about what he was hearing, but both detectives ignored him.

"Who's body was it?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know yet, I believe that's what John will tell us when he gets home." Sherlock shrugged.

"Okay."

"W-where to?" the cabbie asked fearfully.

"Hell's Gate is just at the next turn." Lestrade quipped dryly.

Sherlock snorted. "Then a farther stretch to Mycroft's." He caught the cabbie's eye in the rear view mirror and smiled wincingly. "Baker Street."

The man nodded shakily.

* * *

"Okay, so Donovan told me who the body belongs to." Was the first thing John said when he mounted the steps to his and Sherlock's flat. He found Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mycroft in the sitting room. "Um... am I interrupting something?"

"No, we were just waiting for you." Lestrade smiled at him.

"We were_ all_ waiting." Mycroft drawled in a tone that spoke of impatience and better things to be spending his time on.

Sherlock elbowed him and glared.

"Um." John said intelligently.

"The body, John?" Lestrade helped him along. "Who was it?"

"Oh, yes!" John nodded hastily. "It was a man named Alfred Mole, Donovan told me that the police are still searching for any record of him besides his birth certificate, but so far no criminal record."

Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged glances.

"Al?" Lestrade suggested.

"Possible, but at this moment, still just speculation." Mycroft sniffed back.

"Who's Al?" John asked suspiciously. "And what are you not telling us?"

"The two men that Gregory had run into are known as 'Armitage' and 'Al'. These are aliases that my people from the underworld have heard, but so far we've had little luck in pinning them on faces and birth certificates." Mycroft told them. "If this Alfred Mole is the man known as 'Al', then I'm afraid Gregory is right. There is something going on, and I intend to find out." He stood up. "Excuse me."

"I can't believe you already knew who we were looking for but didn't tell me!" Sherlock yelled after him without getting up.

Mycroft cast one last disdainful look into the flat and walked out.

"It would've taken us half the time to find what we did!" Sherlock continued righteously. "Dammit Mycroft!"

"Come on, you know how he is." John patted his shoulder in a calming manner.

"Sorry, I should've said something, I thought Mycroft told you guys." Lestrade said apologetically.

"Don't worry." John quickly shushed Sherlock's petty agreement to that remark. "We're used to it."

"John, why do you think those men were hired to kidnap Peter, and who do you suppose is behind it?" Lestrade asked.

John shrugged. "I dunno."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I could think of at least fifteen different possibilities." he grumbled.

"And only one of them will be right." Lestrade pointed out. "But which one?"

"What do you think?" John asked him.

"Well, I've mentioned a little something to Donovan and she promised to ask around about it, but until she calls back, I can't say I know." Lestrade shrugged.

Then, his phone rang. "Hello?"

_"Sir? It's Donovan. I have your answer."_


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

"Mycroft, I have a favor to ask of you." Lestrade said into his phone.

_"What is it, Gregory?"_ Mycroft asked.

"Do you think you can pull up everything you can on DCI March? I need some information." Lestrade said.

_"Do you want the basic facts, or the dirt?"_

"Does he _have_ dirt?" Lestrade wondered aloud.

_"Everybody has dirt, you just have to look hard enough."_ Mycroft told him._  
_

"Alright. Give me everything you have." Lestrade said decisively.

* * *

Donovan let out a long sigh as she shifted to a more comfortable position in her car seat. An older sergeant named Gerald sat in the passenger seat beside her, her partner on stake-out for the night.

"This sucks." he whined. "I need to piss."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Didn't you go before we got here?"

Gerald shrugged. "I forgot."

"Christ. Alright, fine, go take a piss. And be quick about it."

The man quickly disappeared.

Donovan reached over into the vacated seat and picked up the pair of binoculars the constable had left behind. She studied the house they were watching.

The house of DCI March. Just in case the kidnappers came back.

A knock on her car window startled her and she lowered the binoculars quickly. She saw the figure of a man in a long coat, face hidden from view, and powered down her window. "What can I help you w-..."

There was a sharp electrical crackle and Donovan yelped in pain before slumping down unconscious in her seat.

* * *

Sherlock was examining Alfred Mole's body while John watched him and Lestrade studied the documents Mycroft and Donovan sent him.

"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Professional work, two bullet holes through the back of the skull." Sherlock remarked, prodding at a cavity with a pair of tweezers. "Double-tapped just to be sure. Standard procedure."

"A falling out, maybe?" John wondered.

"It's more likely that he got spooked after being stopped by a DI in the kidnapping attempt." Sherlock told him. "Probably took that as a sign that he was about to become accomplice to something really very stupid and tried to back out of the deal."

"And when he told his partner he wanted out..." John trailed off when Sherlock made the shape of a gun with his hand and mimed recoil. "Right."

"The problem is... who is behind all this?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

"Aha!" Both Sherlock and John jumped and whirled around to look at Lestrade, who had been quietly studying until now. "Gotcha, you little bastard! You cannot hide from me!"

Ignoring the Detective Inspector's unusually unprofessional behavior while on a case, John asked him, "What did you find?"

Lestrade looked up, realizing for the first time that he may have interrupted something with his findings. "Well, uh, I found something-... that is, a possible motive."

"Explain." Sherlock demanded tersely.

"Well, Mycroft mentioned that DCI March was connected to someone of... questionable standing, before he joined the police force, and this man was jailed five years ago for murder." Lestrade explained to them. "The case is being reopened upon the discovery of new evidence pointing to this man's innocence... and guess who's going to be the star witness?"

"DCI March." Sherlock answered.

"And someone really doesn't want him to testify." John chimed in, catching on. "Someone who will go so far as to kidnap his son to threaten him into silence."

"And I'd bet my left leg that DCI March has a suspicion as to who it might be." Lestrade said. "I just read about it in Dimmock's crash course to trials, but apparently talking about the case before the trial is a huge no-no. Might be why DCI March hasn't made any comment on it."

Just then, Lestrade's phone rang.

It was Donovan. He picked up.

_"Oh God, Sir, I am so sorry!"_ Donovan gushed.

"Hold up, what are you sorry for?"

_"Someone got the drop on me."_ Donovan told him._ "I didn't see him very well except to notice he was male before he tased me, but Peter's gone. DCI March is hysterical with worry."_

"What happened to that other policeman who was with you?" Lestrade asked worriedly.

_"The kidnapper caught us when we were separated, he was off using the loo."_ Donovan's voice trailed off. _"But... now that I think about it, it's suspicious."_ she said. _"I've been out of it for several minutes... and he hasn't come back yet."_

Lestrade, Sherlock, and John exchanged glances. "Who was with you, Donovan?"

_"Gerald."_ she said. _"Sergeant Gerald Armitage."_

* * *

Armitage pulled into an isolated underground parking lot and parked his car. It was a pure stroke of luck that he had been chosen to accompany Donovan on the stake-out.

After all, he would have been ill equipped to overpower two officers without Al around anymore.

He got out of the car and walked around, opening the door to the back seat where Peter was sat, tied up and gagged with duct tape. He pulled out a phone and dialed, then held the phone up to Peter's face.

"I'm going to take this tape off so you can talk to your daddy for a bit, okay?" he said as gently as possible. "So don't scream, or I'll throw you into the boot of the car, okay?" He was never very good at showing compassion, especially to kids. He hated children.

Peter nodded frantically and Armitage peeled the tape off his mouth.

The phone rang once, twice-...

_"March, here."_

Peter's eyes widened with hope when he heard his father's voice. "Daddy, I'm in an underground parking lot about fift-..."

Armitage whipped the phone away with a growl and slapped the boy hard as punishment, eliciting a pained whimper.

_"Oh my God!"_ March exploded. _"What have you done to my son? If you've hurt him, so help me-..."_

Someone took the phone from him.

_"This is Sherlock Holmes."_ A calm, reasonable voice said._ "And I have been hired to find you. You may rest assured that, when I find you - and I will - you may expect to spend a very, very long time in jail."_

Armitage snorted through the voice-changing device he held. "I won't hold my breath. Tell DCI March that if he wants to see his son again,_ alive_ that is, then he should keep his mouth shut."

And he hung up.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty One

Sherlock tossed the phone carelessly back to DCI March as he crossed Lestrade's office where they were all gathered. "You were right." he said to Lestrade. "This is about the trial."

"What was that Peter said on the phone?" John asked. "I didn't quite catch it."

Sherlock pulled a map out of Lestrade's desk drawer and spread it out. "'Daddy, I'm in an underground parking lot about fift-...'. Hmm... 'Fifteen', 'fifty', or 'fifth'? I couldn't quite make it out, he was cut off before he finished." He placed a marker on DCI March's home. "But what could he have meant? Feet, meters, miles, kilometers, streets, or an unidentified variable?"

Sherlock had that excited glint in his eye as his anticipation of a hunt grew.

Lestrade eyed DCI March carefully and decided to get him out of there before he noticed Sherlock's manic look. "Sir, if I could have a moment..."

He took DCI March's arm firmly and guided him out of the office. "What is it?" DCI March asked, still in shock from the phone call.

"I understand that you have been issued a subpoena in regards to a case that is being re-tried, and that you are meant to appear in court tomorrow?" Lestrade said.

"I-... how did you know?" DCI March stammered.

"Details." Lestrade waved it off dismissively. "Someone out there wants you to keep quiet and not to testify, can you think of anybody who may fit that description? Perhaps someone who is involved in this trial?"

DCI March thought about it for a moment. "I-I'm not sure." he said finally.

"Well, if you think of someone, please tell us immediately." Lestrade requested firmly.

"I-... do you think this has something to do with the trial?" DCI March fretted.

"Well, we're looking into all leads, but we very strongly suspect so." Lestrade told him with as much authority as he could muster.

"Alright... I'll get back to you on that one." DCI March smiled thinly and returned to the conference in Lestrade's office.

Donovan, who had surreptitiously followed them out, leaned toward her boss. "Nice handling." she smiled admiringly.

"... I _did_ use the word 'subpoena' okay, right?" Lestrade returned unsurely.

"Splendidly." Donovan smiled back. "I knew that homework would come in handy."

"Thank Dimmock for me, next time you see him."

"Will do, Sir." Donovan smirked. "You're beginning to sound like yourself again."

Lestrade smiled awkwardly. "Thanks... I guess."

They returned to Lestrade's office to see that Sherlock had sketched out a few circles on the map marking distances. Sherlock flipped the marker he was using in the air and pointed at the marks. "Armitage is somewhere within these borders." he told them without looking up. "Or at least, he had been when he made the call."

"I'll find all the underground parking lots in that area." Donovan suggested.

"No need, I've taken care of that." Sherlock replied.

Donovan just looked skeptical. Behind Sherlock, John surreptitiously tapped his temple, reminding the police officers of Sherlock's extensive knowledge of Central London.

"Alright, so what does that give us?" Lestrade asked, crowding over the map.

"We've got several possibles." Sherlock shrugged. "We just have to find out which they're at."

"I'll check up on street cameras and security feeds." Donovan said. "Meanwhile, you lot should check out the parking lots that don't have CCTV coverage."

They all split up, Donovan and DCI March leading the Scotland Yard forces while Sherlock, John, and Lestrade moved on their own. Five minutes later, Mycroft had also joined the search and was rapidly extrapolating parking lots that he was sure wasn't the one they were searching for.

John and Sherlock were just leaving Scotland Yard when they heard a great thrumming of an engine and Lestrade pulled up on a motorbike, flipping his helmet visor up. "Just reminding you to keep in touch if you find something, anything at all. No solo endeavors, you hear?" he barked sternly at them.

Sherlock and John gaped at him. "Alright, the skateboarding I can believe, the leather jacket, I can forgive, but seriously, Greg, what the bloody Hell?" John squeaked.

"Since when do you drive a motorbike?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Since before it was deemed practical to drive a car." Lestrade snorted back. "I'd like to see you both try to run or take a cab to every single parking lot." then, he flipped his black visor back down, hiding his face from view, and rode off with an almighty roar.

"Was that a Ducati?" John wondered absently, a slightly jealous tinge in his tone.

"He has a point, though, how are we going to get from one parking lot to another?" Sherlock mused aloud.

"Mycroft probably spoils him rotten."

"I doubt it, he'd have a heart attack if he ever knew." Sherlock snorted. "And does he even know he rides?"

"Dunno." John shrugged. "But he will now."

"Oh, yes."

* * *

_Nothing here. -Lestrade_

Lestrade texted Mycroft when he made a full circuit of the first parking lot Mycroft had led him to.

_Hm, vexing. -MH_

Was all he got in reply before another address was sent to him.

Lestrade adjusted his helmet and rolled off.

* * *

"I've got zip on his end, Sir." Donovan spoke into her phone as she and five other officers finished combing through their designated parking area.

_"Tough, move on to the next one."_ Lestrade sighed. _"And keep me updated."_

"We'll find them, Sir." Donovan reassured him firmly.

_"I know, sergeant."_

* * *

"Anthea, bring up all CCTV on the streets around DCI March's house, please." Mycroft requested.

Anthea nodded and with a few keystrokes, pulled up a footage of DCI March's house from the street view. "This was taken ten minutes before Sergeant Donovan was incapacitated."

"Watch it and tell me if you find any leads, hopefully we'll catch a glimpse of the car Armitage drove." Mycroft hummed.

Both got down to work, falling into silence.

* * *

"Greg had the right idea when he brought a motorbike to the search." John panted as he chased Sherlock across the city. "At this rate, we'll spend more time running than actually looking for Peter!"

Sherlock snorted. "Stop talking, save your breath, John." he quipped.

"Just you wait." John grumbled unhappily behind him. "One of these days, I'm going to tell you to 'save your breath' when you don't stop talking. See if you listen because I sure as Hell am not going to."

Sherlock smiled.

* * *

Lestrade was just descending the ramp into an underground parking lot when he felt his phone in his leather jacket vibrate. He slowed to a halt and kicked the stand down before answering.

"Lestrade."

_"Dimmock."_ came from the other end. _"I'm here with DCI March and he said you told him to contact you if he had a suspicion about-..."_

"Who might not want him to testify. I know what I said." Lestrade cut him off impatiently as he walked his motorbike down the aisle of filled lots. "Come on, Dimmock, give me a name."

And so Dimmock did.


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty Two

_"Attention, all units to-..."_ Donovan only half listened to the radio operator directing the collective police force to where Mycroft and Anthea tracked Armitage and Peter to.

She was on the phone with Lestrade.

_"Dimmock filled me in with everything that's happened so far."_ Lestrade was saying. _"Dimmock's leading the team going out to get Peter back. You phone Sherlock and John, pick them up and go take a team to bring DCI March's suspect into custody."_

"Got it, Sir." Donovan returned, not even questioning his commands.

_"Maybe we can find a way to negotiate if we have him."_ Lestrade thought aloud.

"I'll get him." Donovan assured him.

_"By the way, I haven't called Mycroft yet. Where did you say they tracked Armitage and Peter down to?"_ Lestrade asked her in afterthought.

Donovan gave him the address. "Most of the boys are on their way now."

There was a moment's silence on the other end. _"Well... that's good."_ Lestrade managed in a strangled tone.

"Lestrade? Are you okay, boss?"

_"Um..."_ Lestrade sounded on edge. _"Tell them to hurry... because that's where **I** am."_

"Oh, shit. Don't move, Sir."

_"Okay."_ Lestrade hung up before Donovan could tell him to keep her on the line.

* * *

"It just had to be me, didn't it?" Lestrade grumbled to himself as he pocketed his phone. "Just my luck."

Out of the hundreds of seasoned and experienced officers prowling Central London, it_ had_ to be the amnesiac one who was first on site.

"Christ." He dropped his head but didn't get off his motorbike immediately. He wondered what his next move should be.

Then, he felt a buzz in his pocket and lifted his head.

_I do hope you don't intend on doing something irrational. -MH_

Lestrade stared at the tiny screen on his phone for a moment or two.

_What** can** I do, Mycroft? -Lestrade_

Mycroft clasped his hands in front of him when he read that. He had forgotten that Lestrade was mentally a young, inexperienced man, and that when faced with running into a possibly armed kidnapper, most civilian responses would be to call the police and get away from there was quickly as possible.

To run away and let the professionals handle it.

To stay out of harm's way.

Mycroft was half inclined to make him do it. But he knew Lestrade. He picked his phone up and typed out a response.

_Is there something you can do? -MH_

Lestrade felt incredibly hot so he pulled his helmet off and ran a hand through his short hair, making it stand up on end every which way. He wasn't surprised to find that his hand came away moist with perspiration.

_I haven't found them. I'm not sure I could without tipping Armitage off. -Lestrade_

There looked to be a few floors of parking space and Lestrade hadn't even began to search when he got the call from Dimmock.

He got off his bike.

_I'm going to take a look. -Lestrade_

_Wait for the police. -MH_

_The place will be crawling with police men in uniforms when they come. I'm in plain clothes, I could look like just another random parker. -Lestrade_

_But Armitage has seen your face. What if he recognizes you? -MH_

_I've got a helmet, he won't see it. -Lestrade_

_I think you should reconsider. -MH_

_It'll help the police to know exactly where Armitage and Peter are when they arrive. -Lestrade_

_I can't change your mind, can I? -MH_

_You probably could. I'm just asking you not to. -Lestrade_

Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Please let them not fail." he murmured to himself.

He lost Lestrade's memory to a concussion and a near fatal gunshot to the chest.

Please let him not lose his life, too.

_Do as you see appropriate. Just be careful. -MH_

* * *

"Good evening." Sherlock smiled wincingly at the man who's house he and John had just broken into. "You must be Mister Hardy, we're here to place you under arrest for kidnapping."

"What- I..." the man stammered.

"And on that note, we're also here to arrest you on suspicion of a murder that took place a few years ago." John chimed in with false cheer. "You're the one DCI March is to testify against tomorrow, aren't you?"

The man turned and ran.

The front door opened before he even reached it and Donovan stepped in. "You don't want to do that." she warned coldly.

The man's shoulders slumped.

* * *

Peter let out muffled whimpers and hushed sniffles before he could stand it no longer. He whined behind his gag to get Armitage's attention.

His kidnapper turned from his front seat. "What?" he snapped.

Another muffled whimper.

The gag came off. "What do you want, brat?"

"I need to pee." Peter announced.

The safety of a gun clicked off loudly, pointedly. "Still need to go?" Armitage growled.

Wide-eyed, Peter nodded frantically.

"The honesty of a child..." Armitage sighed heavily to himself as he shifted in his seat and got out.

He rounded the car and opened the back passenger door closest to Peter. "Alright, get out, toilet break. You know the rules, you do anything unordinary and I shoot, okay?"

Peter whined fearfully as he scooted out of the back of the car and followed Armitage's nudges to an isolated corner.

"Stop complaining." Armitage grumbled as he untied the boy. "If your dad cares enough about you not to testify in court, you can go home tomorrow. If you can hold out until then, you can go home alive and not in a body bag."

That got Peter to quiet down.

After Peter relieved himself, Armitage grabbed him and guided him roughly back toward the car when a man in a black-tinted helmet and leather jacket caught sight of the gun in Armitage's hand.

"Oi, what the-...!"

There was a dull noise of Armitage's gun spitting out a bullet through a silencer and Peter screamed in fright and shock.

The man fell back with a shattered hole the size of a walnut in the black visor.


	24. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

Armitage clapped a hand over Peter's mouth, instantly silencing the screams. He picked the small boy up with his other arm and carried him hastily back to the car where he gagged and tied the boy back up.

Then, he returned to check on the dead man.

There was a pool of scarlet bubbling out from under the dead man's head and Armitage nudged the helmet with his toe to roll it so that he could see his face.

As the head lolled to the side, a large piece of broken visor crumbled away, revealing blond hair and dead blue eyes widened in shock.

Unacceptable. This was not part of the plan.

Armitage growled deep in his throat and drove his heel into the man's broken visor twice in rage.

Lestrade, who had heard Peter scream and had come running, was crouched behind a dusty car. He could see Armitage stomp on the dead man's face and shuddered.

That man lying dead on the ground could've easily been him. Peter was decidedly not safe anywhere near a man like Armitage.

He stealthily snuck away.

* * *

Armitage stomped on the dead man a final time and inhaled sharply, smoothing his ruffled hair. An eerie calm settled over him.

No matter that there were casualties. Nobody knew the man was dead. The plan could go on.

He grabbed the dead man's wrists and began dragging him laborously to his car, leaving a smudged trail of blood in his wake.

Nevermind. He could park somewhere else and wash away the blood.

Sweat was beginning to sprout on his forehead and he dropped the man's arms halfway to his car. He straightened, popping his back, and wiped away his sweat with the back of his hand when he saw something that made his heart stop.

There were two clear hand prints smudged into the surface of the dusty car Lestrade had been watching him from. Two hand prints stamped onto the rear end of the car as if someone had been leaning on it and peeking around the end.

At him.

Armitage quickly shoved his hand into his jacket pocket for his gun when he heard a roar and turned.

He was momentarily blinded by the bright headlamp of Lestrade's motorbike before Lestrade jumped off, sending the bike colliding hard with Armitage, knocking him to the ground.

Lestrade groaned and pushed himself up from where he had rolled to a stop. Gun, gun... where was the gun? It was nowhere in sight and Lestrade was in too much of a hurry to look for it.

He climbed painfully to his feet and staggered away from the collision to the car he had seen Armitage drag Peter into. He grimaced a little to himself at the twinges in his muscles as he understood what the elder officers in the office were talking about when they said: "I'm too old for this shit."

He wrenched the door open and Peter jumped, squealing with fright behind his gag.

Lestrade took it off. "Hey, it's okay!" he cooed soothingly, flipping the visor of his helmet up. "It's me, Lestrade."

"The detective." Peter gasped.

Lestrade untied the boy. "Are you okay?"

Peter nodded. "Uh-huh."

"Okay, I'll need you to do something for me." Lestrade and Peter took off in a steady jog. "I don't know if I've put Armitage down for good, but I'll need to go back and at least confiscate his gun."

Peter's eyes widened in fear. "No! You can't!" he protested. "He's scary! And he has a gun!"

Lestrade patted his shoulder. "That's why I need to go back and take it away from him."

He escorted the boy until he saw the exit ramp and pointed it out. "I need you to run out there, okay?" he said. "The police are going to be here soon, so you need to meet up with them and tell them what happened. Can you do that?"

Peter chewed on his bottom lip and nodded after a moment's careful contemplation.

Lestrade grinned and ruffled his hair. "Good lad." He nudged him off in the right direction. "Now off you go."

Peter turned and ran.

Lestrade turned in the opposite direction and started running himself. He returned to Armitage's car and saw the body still lying on the ground beside his fallen motorbike.

But no Armitage.

"Aw, shite." He flipped his helmet's visor down just in case and crept away.

He had no idea where Armitage was. Had he cut his losses and fled? Or was he still lurking around?

He was bent double, dodging in and out between cars, both searching for Armitage, and making his way as fast as he could back to the exit. At this moment, he conceded the wisdom of standing back and letting the police handle the bad guy.

But he had to get out of here, first.

This endeavor proved quite difficult when he didn't know where Armitage was.

Then, he had an idea. After they had found out that Sergeant Armitage was the kidnapper, they had gathered everything they had on him. Records, address, phone number...

He pulled out his phone and inserted the number.

He dialed.

_Bzzzt._

Lestrade froze. Armitage was in the vicinity.

_Bzzt._

Where was he? The noise echoed horribly in the underground parking lot.

_Bzzzzt-... crack!_

Lestrade heard the phone fall and crush underfoot.

Behind him...

He whirled around just as Armitage cracked the butt of his pistol over the surface of his helmet with a force that caused his teeth to rattle in his skull.

He was was knocked back onto a car and rolled to the ground, groaning and seeing stars despite the protection the helmet offered.

Christ, he could see white splinters spider-webbing across his visor. Just how strong was Armitage?

And how angry?

With a grunt, he tried to raise himself but only managed to sit up unsteadily just in time for Armitage to kick him hard under the chin, knocking his helmet off with a clatter.

"Well, well." Armitage hummed as Lestrade reeled. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I am pleasantly surprised to find you here."

Lestrade let out a pained little noise. "Pleasantly surprised to find you here, too." he grunted insolently. "Only, not so pleasant, and not so surprised. So, just 'found you here'."

Armitage barked out a laugh. "You're a funny man, Inspector."

Lestrade pushed himself into a crouch, half rising, when he felt the barrel of Armitage's gun press into his forehead.

"Oh, please don't do that." Armitage droned. "Stay down."

Lestrade collapsed to his knees.

"Thank you."

Armitage whipped him across his temple with his gun.

And everything went black.

* * *

"The police are on site, Sir." Anthea reported. "Peter has come out of the parking lot alone. Says he saw Lestrade. The police are ready to go in anytime."

"Just tell them not to shoot the idiot." Mycroft grumbled under his breath and hung up.

Whether he was referring to Armitage, or Lestrade, Anthea didn't know. Probably Lestrade, Mycroft would have no qualms over having Armitage brought out and shot.

Mycroft moved to put his phone down but it buzzed before it touched the wood of his desk. He lifted it and read the incoming message.

_The boy escaped. No matter. Tell the police not to raid. -Lestrade_

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed. What an odd message, coming from Lestrade.

He received a photo next and nearly dropped his phone.

Lestrade was lying on his side on the cold concrete ground in the underground parking lot. His arms were tied to his sides tightly by a coil of rope and his wrists behind his back. His shattered helmet was lying by his legs.

A frightening amount of blood was running down his forehead and over his closed eyes, dripping across his face, drawn by gravity. Scarlet droplets ran sideways on his head from the angle out from under his hair, down his nose, and over the corner of his mouth.

Just like Sherlock...

Mycroft pressed his eyes shut and shook his head as if to rattle the horrific image out of his mind.

Lestrade was evidently unconscious or, God forbid, dead. It was something Mycroft needed to take into consideration, but he tried not to think about it more than strictly necessary.

Armitage texted him again.

_Mister Holmes, you have been known to Scotland Yard to work miracles. Now that the threat against DCI March's son's life has been rendered useless, I will expect **you** to stop him from testifying. Now it is someone **you** care about who's life is on the line. -Lestrade_


	25. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty Four

"Alright, everybody move in!" Dimmock called out, waving his arm in a 'forward, march!' signal.

"No!" Someone barked out, starling everybody.

Dimmock turned to see a very attractive lady in a small, black, flattering dress and sky-high stilettos of the same colour. "Um, excuse me-..."

"I work for Mycroft Holmes." Anthea snapped authoritatively. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is currently being held hostage inside this building. You cannot be allowed to enter."

"What!" Dimmock gasped. "How-... how do you know?"

"Sergeant Armitage sent a photo and a threatening text to Mycroft Holmes directly, using the phone he took from Lestrade." Anthea told him and showed him a copy of the photo sent to Mycroft.

"Oh my God..."

Anthea nodded jerkily. "You need to call your men back."

Dimmock looked at her, to his men, then to the picture in his hands. Then, he nodded slowly. "Come on back then, lads." he sighed, to groans and despondent looks from the other officers who were hoping to get the bad guy and wrap this case up for good.

"Sorry." Anthea said apologetically.

Dimmock shook his head. "Lestrade's my mate." was all he said.

* * *

_"Pick me up at five o'clock at the Diogenes Club." Lestrade said as he grabbed his coat and keys on his way out to work. "And not a second later. You had better not leave me hanging, Mycroft, I can't stand those buggers! They try to get security to remove me from the premises every single time!"_

**_Wait, I know this..._**

_"That is because you always disregard the rules of the Club." Mycroft returned good-naturedly, flipping through the morning newspaper to the business section._

_Not like he was hoping for new information. He knew it all already. It was just fun to point and laugh at the funny little people scurrying about their business._

**_Like he did every morning._**

_"It's not my fault that I talk. That's what happens when people come together in a communal area!" Lestrade complained. "I'd go so far as to say it's the polite thing to do!"_

_"Coffee's on the table." Mycroft reminded off-handedly and Lestrade took the stiff paper cup._

**_He always wakes up a few minutes early to make the damn coffee. That reminds me to tell him that I want to wake up in bed with him on days off..._**

_Lestrade lifted it, took a swig, and made an indecent little noise of pleasure. "Oh, that's good." he moaned happily. "Well, I'm off." He announced as he rounded the dining table, pecking Mycroft on the temple. "See you at five."_

_"I will be there." Mycroft smiled back, not looking up from the paper._

**_But I never made it... did I?_**

**_What happened?_**

* * *

Lestrade's eyes fluttered open and he let out a soft moan of pain.

"Morning, sleeping beauty." Armitage grunted.

Lestrade's body felt like lead. One of his eyes were swollen shut. He forced himself to open his good eye and take a look around at the situation.

He and Armitage were in the kidnapper's car. Armitage in the front, with Lestrade in the back where Peter previously was.

Lestrade was lying on his side and tied up, but not gagged. He briefly wondered why that was.

"I need you to talk." Armitage said as if reading his thoughts. "And you nearly choked on your own vomit while you were unconscious. Didn't want you going and dying yet."

_Yet..._

Lestrade blew out a long breath. "I could use a bloody coffee." he mumbled under his breath.

One of Mycroft's special blend.

"Tell me about it." Armitage huffed back. "All I've got is this." He shook a black thermos and Lestrade could hear liquid sloshing around inside. "It tastes like shit, but it does the job. I swear it's even worse than the stuff back in the office."

"You want to come with me and compare?" Lestrade asked, throat sandpaper dry.

Armitage barked out a laugh. "Nice try, that's a good one." he said sarcastically.

"Hey, I'm fucking hilarious." Lestrade complained.

"Yeah, sure you are."

* * *

Sherlock and John were down at Scotland Yard with Donovan when Mycroft called.

Sherlock declined his call once, accepted it the second time, then jumped up stiffly, and strode out calling for John to follow.

He was pale.

"Sherlock? What the Hell was that?" John asked him concernedly.

"It's Lestrade." Sherlock told him as they flagged down a cab. "He's being held hostage."

"What?" John yelled. "How? What-... why?"

"Apparently, he saved Peter, but got caught by Armitage." Sherlock explained.

"Oh my God."

"Now Armitage is using Lestrade to threaten Mycroft into keeping DCI March quiet in court." Sherlock seethed.

"Bastard." John muttered under his breath. "What does Mycroft want us to do?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Cause trouble." he replied frankly. "Why else would Mycroft utilize our services?"

"You mean-..."

"He's inviting you to bring your gun." Sherlock told him seriously.

"Tell him I've got it." John replied solidly.

* * *

Armitage jumped a little when he heard a high keening noise come from the back seat. He twisted around to find out what was going on.

Lestrade was curled up in a tight ball, eyes squeezed shut, perspiration beginning to form on his face and neck. He was panting hard through gritted teeth and his face was reddening.

"Oi, what's this, now?" Armitage snapped.

"H-head..." Lestrade gasped, tears spilling out from the corners of his eyes. "Hurts... _christ!_" He let out another pained noised and began hyperventilating.

"What the Hell's wrong with you?" Armitage yelled, getting out of the car and running over to open the back passenger door for Lestrade.

Lestrade toppled out of the car and promptly fell to his knees, dry heaving, curling into himself with pathetic little noises of pain. "Head, oh God..." Lestrade hiccuped. "My head...!"

Armitage drew back a step, frowning.

This was troublesome to say in the least. Maybe the injury that caused Lestrade to lose his memory was acting up. Maybe he was regaining his memory. It was never this damn messy, or ugly, in the movies or TV.

"I would back away from him, if I were you." Armitage spun around to see Sherlock step out from behind a vehicle.

The kidnapper pulled his gun out, quick as a flash, and pointed it at Sherlock.

Lestrade straightened himself swiftly and head butted Armitage from behind, John, who was covering Armitage with his gun, gaped at him.

"Christ, Greg, are you alright?" John gasped.

Sherlock strode over without hurry and kicked Armitage's gun away from him, cuffing him with a pair of handcuffs he pick pocketed from Dimmock the first time he tried to prevent them from coming in.

"He was acting, obviously." Sherlock snorted at his flatmate. "He played on the image people have of amnesiacs regaining their memory to get Armitage to lower his guard. Hollywood does love to exaggerate things."

"You were-...?" John burst out into giggles. "Oh, wow."

Lestrade leaned against the car with a sigh. "I deserve an Emmy, what can I say?"

"Don't say anything." Sherlock advised. "You're idiotic enough as it is."

Lestrade snorted. "Right, right. Mind untying me, now? I'm having a craving for Mycroft's coffee."

John quickly complied with a laugh while Sherlock mimed gagging.

"Well, I could use a coffee, too." John sighed to himself. "Never had Mycroft's special blend, not sure if I want to."

"We could pick some up on the way back home." Sherlock suggested.

"Sounds like a date." John agreed absently. Then, realized what he said and glanced at Sherlock nervously.

Sherlock caught his look and quickly averted his gaze, coughing awkwardly. John did the same, both stole glances when they thought the other wasn't looking. Lestrade just looked between them back and forth as if watching some invisible tennis game.

"Well!" The amnesiac said awkwardly. "I just heard some sultry saxophone music start playing, so I'm just going to leave now." He pointed in a vague direction. "Yeah, okay, bye."

"Hey there!" John squawked, charging after him like the good doctor he was, and part embarrassed teenager. "Injuries!" he reminded sternly.

"Scratches!" Lestrade insisted, batting him away with one hand. "And I'm sure I don't need to remind you what people say about head wounds and bleeding. I'll go find a paramedic and send in the police, you have a more _pressing engagement._" he smirked tauntingly.

"It's coffee." John said flatly.

"Hey, it sounds like a date to me, too!" Lestrade chortled, pushing him toward Sherlock. "Just_ go_, already!"

"Fine, fine!" John hissed batting Lestrade's hand off his shoulder. "But I'm getting you back for this!"

Lestrade just threw a lazy wave over his shoulder as he staggered off singing-songing 'Sherlock and John, sitting in a tree-...'.


	26. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

Mycroft occupied a seat inside the courtroom half an hour before people would start filing in and the trial would begin.

He was alone, which was why nobody protested the fact that the seat Mycroft sat in was the judge's chair.

He checked his phone for the fourth time in as many minutes.

Nothing.

It was half an hour before the retrial began and still no word from Sherlock.

In his mind's eye he could see the hand of a clock speedily ticking the seconds away.

It was morning. By this time, the sun would be relatively high in the sky, drenching the building in light. He wondered if Lestrade could see the light from where he was. The answer was: not probable.

Twenty-nine minutes to 'all rise for his Lordship'.

He stood.

He must speak to DCI March, who was somewhere in a separate room in the building, waiting nervously to be called in to testify.

He need not worry. He wouldn't be testifying today.

Mycroft stepped out from behind the judge's desk and moved to leave the box when the large double-doors on the opposite side of the room opened.

Lestrade walked in.

Mycroft inhaled sharply and examined the man critically with his eyes.

Lestrade's head was wrapped up in bandages like it had been on the first day Mycroft visited him in the hospital and first found out about his amnesia. He could see a smudge of copper red on the white but Lestrade seemed steady.

His left eye was a bluish shade and swollen shut, his lip was bloody and puffed, but to Mycroft, he was positively beautiful.

Lestrade walked slowly down the aisle and through the low wooden gate of the barrier separating them from the general public seating area and closed the gate behind him out of habit.

He stopped directly between the defense council's bench and the crown prosecutor's. "Mycroft." His voice rang strongly through the empty room like a bell despite his subdued tone.

"Gregory." Mycroft replied. "You're here."

Way to state the obvious, Mycroft. The government agent inwardly winced.

Lestrade sniffed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a wry smile. "Yeah." He looked around at the courtroom. "Here I am." Then, he looked at Mycroft again. "Here _we_ are."

"Here we are." Mycroft repeated, nodding.

"Would you really have gone and stopped DCI March from testifying?" Lestrade asked him, gravitating slowly toward the defense council's bench.

"Yes." Mycroft replied frankly. "Without hesitation."

"You would've let an innocent man remain in jail?" Lestrade said.

"An innocent man could easily be taken out of jail, all it takes is a phone call and a bit of paperwork." Mycroft responded. "A dead man is a little harder to wrangle out of the afterlife."

Lestrade tilted his head a little and chuckled softly. "That's true."

Mycroft left the judge's box and walked down the steps to level himself with Lestrade. "I told you not to do anything irrational." Mycroft sighed. He didn't sound accusing, or spiteful, just a little long-suffering and a lot fond.

"If it's any consolation, I didn't mean to get caught." Lestrade grimaced. "I fucking ran the guy over with my motorbike, Mycroft, I didn't think he'd get back up so soon!"

"Well, next time, be sure to run him over twice." Mycroft said jokingly. "And, did you say you ran him over with a motorbike?"

"Yes, Mycroft." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I ride one."

"Now_ that_ is irrationally dangerous." Mycroft intoned solemnly. "Do you know how many motorbikes are involved in car crashes every year?"

"I don't know, but I have a feeling you'll tell me." Lestrade smiled.

Mycroft smiled back. "Maybe some other time." He reached over and pulled Lestrade into a hug. "You irrational man. Don't do this to me."

Lestrade's arms circled around the small of Mycroft's back and all the government agent could think was.

_He fits. This is right... this is good. I've missed this. Oh God, for **so damn long!** Too long..._

And then suddenly, his fingers were curling into Lestrade's hair and he was pulling Lestrade closer for a kiss. He could feel Lestrade's hands fist into the back of his suit, bunching the starched material as they kissed, hot and desperate, mouths moving in perfect synchrony with a passion that tingled up Mycroft's spine and blew the top of his head off.

He could feel the heat radiate even from his ears.

And suddenly, Lestrade shoved him back a step, one palm pressed to Mycroft's heaving chest.

The man's eyes were clenched shut and he breathed heavily.

Mycroft's heart sank when he remembered that this was amnesiac Gregory Lestrade, not Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who was Mycroft's lover.

"Gregory-..."

Lestrade's fingers curled, clutching onto the fabric of Mycroft's suit vest as he caught his breath.

"_Jesus_, Mycroft, you can snog proper! Give a man a moment to breathe, alright?" he panted. "I thought I was going to faint!"

Mycroft let out a breathy giggle. "I'm sor-..."

Breath regained, Lestrade grinned and pulled him in for another kiss.

And Mycroft let him.

* * *

Mycroft opened his eyes a few hours later in his own bedroom in his flat, feeling like he had run a triathlon and slept a century.

His phone rang a second time.

There was a disgruntled noise beside him and Lestrade's head popped up from under the covers of Mycroft's bed. "Wha-...?" He sounded as good as Mycroft felt.

And just as coherent. Mycroft had to smile in satisfaction.

"That's mine." he told Lestrade and rolled over, picking his phone up from the nightstand.

"Mmm. Wake me up in another year." Lestrade mumbled sleepily and promptly fell back asleep, burrowing down under the blankets again.

Mycroft patted the lump of cover where Lestrade was hiding under. "Will do." He accepted his call.

It was Sherlock._ "Mycroft, where the Hell are you?"_ his younger brother demanded even before Mycroft could greet him.

"Um..." Mycroft cleared his throat, but not quick enough to get the tell-tale huskiness out of it.

_"Oh my **God.**"_ Sherlock said, disgusted. _"**No!** No, nevermind, don't answer that question."_ And he promptly hung up.

"Well how rude." Mycroft 'harrumphed' to his dead phone.

He shifted and threw his legs over the side of the bed to get out and make breakfast. Just as he lifted himself off the bed, arms circled around his waist and pulled him back. Mycroft fell, stunned.

Lestrade let out a displeased little whine. "Nope. No. No coffee, Mycroft." he mumbled, still half asleep. "Stay in bed."

"I-..." Mycroft trailed off. "You love your coffee."

"Nope. Not today." Lestrade grunted back stubbornly, refusing to let go.

Mycroft tugged gently a few times just to see if Lestrade really wouldn't release him but Lestrade held firm in his sleepy embrace, letting himself be lugged by his lover half across the bed into Mycroft's side.

"May I at least relieve myself?" Mycroft asked.

"Haha. No." Lestrade said, his voice muffled behind a face full of blanket. "Nice try."

With a great sigh, Mycroft gave up. "Very well, scoot over."

Lestrade sounded affronted. "_You_ were the one who moved_ me_."

"You wouldn't let go when I tried to leave." Mycroft shot back coolly.

Finally, Lestrade rolled over onto his side of the bed and let Mycroft climb back in. "What time is it?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft looked at the time on his phone. "Oh my..." He rubbed his eyes and checked again just to be sure. "It's two... in the afternoon."

Lestrade's head popped up. "Say what?" he said dumbly.

"Two in the afternoon." Mycroft repeated.

"Christ, I came straight to the courthouse when the paramedics let me go." Lestrade groaned. "I was supposed to be down at Scotland Yard giving my statement."

"That must've been what the call was about." Mycroft snorted. "Never thought I'd see the day where Gregory Lestrade went and did his own thing while Sherlock Holmes hung around badgering him to give his statement."

Lestrade chuckled back. "No, neither did I." And he fell back asleep for good.

Mycroft smiled at him and pressed a kiss into his silver hair. He and Lestrade could have a proper freak out about the state of their now very complicated relationship when they were more rested.

But until then... Mycroft rolled over and gathered Lestrade into his arms and fell asleep himself.

Until then, he could only hold Lestrade close and hope that he would never have to let him go.


	27. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

_Oh dear, what happens now?_

_Oh, crap. This is it. I'm done. I'm dead. Oh God, kill me now!  
_

These are very common thoughts that most people in relationships have at least once in the course of their relationship. But rarely ever two people in the same bed, at the same time.

Thinking about the same problem.

And about the same person they've been dating for three consecutive years.

"You know." Lestrade's voice broke the dead silence. "I know you're awake, Mycroft."

Mycroft could feel the vibration of Lestrade's voice echo through his chest cavity like rolling thunder from where his face was pressed against the curve in the back of his neck.

"We're going to have to talk about this sometime, aren't we?" Mycroft replied with a sigh.

"Afraid so." Lestrade turned over in bed to face Mycroft. "So." he prompted.

"So." Mycroft repeated like a man standing on the edge of a cliff and looking over with extreme trepidation.

"So... that happened." Lestrade prompted awkwardly, getting the obvious out of the way.

"Yes... yes it did, didn't it?" Mycroft responded with a slight chuckle. "I never thought it would. I had taken precautions against it happening."

"But against all odds..." Lestrade's eyebrows quirked as he tucked a bent arm under his head.

Mycroft let out a soft chuckle. "Indeed."

"So, question of the day: what happens now?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes, half lidding them. "I do not know."

Christ, from this close, Lestrade could see that Mycroft's eyelashes were also ginger. Down to their roots. Fascinating.

"I think..." Lestrade faltered, and tried again. "I think you should be the one who decides." he finally said.

Mycroft looked up. "Gregory?"

"I mean..." Lestrade scratched his cheek. "I like you, Mycroft." he said. "I may even love you, as I get to know you. And that's where the problem lies: I_ don't_ know you. Not_ really_. Not like I think I used to. I don't remember."

Mycroft looked sad.

"And, I don't know what sort of history we had before... I'm remembering bits and pieces, but nothing big." Lestrade paused to regroup his thoughts. "I like you. And I want to date you, have dinner with you, go out for coffee, do something brash and stupid."

Mycroft smiled reminiscently.

"But maybe I've already done these things with you." Lestrade continued. "This is all new and exciting for me. But not for you. I might go out with you tomorrow on our first date without the memory of being your lover for the last three years. And this is all good. This is okay with me. I can live with the knowledge. But is it okay with you? Is it okay for you to be weighed down by three years' worth of memories and baggage while I'm over here feeling giddy like an idiot over our first dates, our kisses, our loves...?" Lestrade regarded him with a piercing gaze. "Would that be alright with you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft thought about it for a few minutes. He was glad that Lestrade did not take his silence to mean rejection. The man just lay still, inches away from him, close enough to feel his warmth.

"I think..." Mycroft began slowly, measuring out each work carefully. "I think that you raise a very good point."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.

"You are right in thinking that the lapse in memory will be difficult to navigate." Mycroft said. "And you are correct in thinking that some very beautiful memories we used to share are now known only in my mind, and that that knowledge will hurt me. It does hurt... every day." he confessed.

Lestrade looked pained.

"But..." Mycroft paused at Lestrade's hopeful look. "If I walked away now, I wouldn't be losing a stranger, Gregory. Because I know you. I remember every shade of you, every memory, and as you put it, all the baggage we carried. I would be losing the best thing that has ever happened to me." Lestrade smiled shyly. "And I know that I would be a fool to let that go."

He held Lestrade's face in both his hands and kissed him.

"Let's go out." he said to Lestrade. "For dinner. For coffee. Let's do something crazy and irrational. But lets not rush. We've had our share of difficulties."

"No relationship is perfect." Lestrade shrugged. "But, we'll figure it out, won't we?"

"Of course."

They lay for a few minutes, Lestrade's head on Mycroft's shoulder, legs tangled up.

And then Lestrade's phone rang from his pile of dirty clothes on the floor where Mycroft had hastily stripped him on the way to the bed.

"Oh, God..." Lestrade's eyes fell shut as he groaned. "Moment gone."

"I suspect it's my brother." Mycroft sighed back.

"Great. Just what I need." Lestrade grumbled and stumbled inelegantly out of bed, completely nude and not bothering to cover up as he searched for his phone.

"He'll probably gut you, first thing, for sleeping with me." Mycroft warned. "He did that the first time he found out about us."

Lestrade shot him a concerned look and brought his phone up to his ear. "Hello?"

_"You slept with him."_ Was the first thing Sherlock said. He sounded less than ecstatic. In fact, he sounded downright accusatory.

"Yup, sure did." Lestrade replied frankly. "In fact, I'm still naked." He shot a glance at Mycroft and winked, grinning impishly. "And, if you want the dirty details, I can tell you that my back popped at least twice when-..."

There was a noise like a goose being strangled on the other end of the line and a loud rustle before Sherlock hung up.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft innocently. "Not as young as I thought I was." he deadpanned.

Mycroft burst out laughing.

* * *

"So." John prompted when he figured out the reason Sherlock was avoiding Lestrade, and hissing like a wet cat when he got too close. "You and Mycroft do something fun, then?"

Lestrade paused mid sip, very careful not to choke it all up on Mrs. Hudson who was smiling ever so sweetly at him from across the coffee table.

He swallowed. "Um..."

"Oh, don't worry about Sherlock, dearie." Mrs. Hudson tutted. "He's just upset that he didn't win the bet."

Lestrade decided to leave his tea alone for this conversation. "What bet?"

"How long you and Mycroft could keep your hands off each other." John told him.

"You were _betting?_" Lestrade squeaked.

"I placed my bet on 'never'." Sherlock spat. "I guess it was all just wishful thinking, all the good that did me."

"Why am I not surprised?" Lestrade sighed.

"Because we did the exact same thing with the exact same results when you two first became an item." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Only, John wasn't here at that time. Sherlock made me a very wealthy woman."

John cackled at his flatmate's bullheaded stubbornness.

"I hate all of you." Lestrade whined, he shook his head. "And all I wanted to do was stop by for a nice quiet spot of tea after giving my statement to the police." he grumbled to himself.

"What the Hell possessed you to come _here_ then, mate?" John grinned at him sympathetically. "Of all places."

"Anthea's at Mycroft's. Donovan and Dimmock at Scotland Yard." Lestrade murmured. "I just wanted to have some tea to brace myself for those inevitable conversations."

Mrs. Hudson and John laughed, even Sherlock smirked a little.

"I suspect it will be a bit difficult to explain." Lestrade said. "That I am now twice Mycroft's lover without even breaking up."

Sherlock clamped a hand around his own throat and mimed gagging. John glared at him. Mrs. Hudson just patted Lestrade comfortingly.

"Life is needlessly complicated, I find."

Nobody even tried to argue with him on that point.


	28. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

"Oh my God, _again?_" Was all Donovan could say when she was finally able to coax the information out of her distracted friend. Lestrade made frantic hushing noises and gestures, but it was too late.

"What do you mean, 'again'?" Dimmock asked, childishly confused, poking his head into the door.

"What do_ you_ mean?" Donovan asked him, incredulous.

She looked from Dimmock's confused face, to Lestrade's grimace, and put two and two together.

"Oh my God." Dimmock looked even more confused. "Dimmock, love, nobody told you, did they?"

"Didn't tell me what?" Dimmock was beginning to sound annoyed.

"They weren't telling me about me and Mycroft." Lestrade chimed in. "Thanks for telling me, though."

The look of realization was slow to come to Dimmock. "Oh... oh my God! I'm so, so sorry! I didn't, like, do something terrible, did I?"

"Don't worry about it, Dimmock."

* * *

It was like meeting Mummy. Or an executioner. Or both rolled into one delicate woman.

Either way, it was horrible.

Anthea, in a rare move, placed her Blackberry down on the coffee table to give Lestrade her full attention. The phone settled with a sharp _'clack'_ on the glass. Lestrade flinched.

"I hear you and Mycroft have become an item?" Anthea said nonchalantly, elegant eyebrow rising. "Again."

Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it, and straightened, pulling his shoulders back like a soldier marching into battle. "Yes, we have." he said firmly.

Anthea narrowed her eyes and Lestrade felt himself shrink under her gaze but stood his metaphorical ground and stared back.

A few moments away from pissing himself, Anthea finally let up.

She tossed her hair and tucked a few strands behind her ear, picking her Blackberry up again, cool as cucumber. "Very well, I approve." she said crisply.

Lestrade heaved a great big sigh and rubbed away a small bead of perspiration from his forehead. "God, you have a mean glare." he groaned.

"I've been known to freeze men's testicles with a stare." Anthea said with a smirk.

Lestrade gaped back. "Where did Mycroft _find_ you?"

"Who ever said _he_ found _me?_" was the enigmatic reply.

One look at her face convinced Lestrade that he really didn't want to know.

* * *

"So, have I done my full rounds?" Lestrade asked Mycroft tiredly over dinner. "Do I still need to tell Mummy Holmes about us?"

Mycroft scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." he said. "I haven't told Mummy about your amnesia. I have no doubt that she knows about it, and neither do I doubt that she already knows we've become lovers." Lestrade stared at him and Mycroft waved him off breezily. "Let her do her own meddling, Gregory, God knows I've inherited her tendencies... or more, she's raised me well. She'll not stand for any observational assist from me and she is still better informed than most alphabet agencies."

"Wow... have I met her before?" Lestrade asked, a little stunned.

"Yes." Mycroft scowled. "You unknowingly stumbled across her participating in some legally ambiguous event and you tried to arrest her."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "And what happened?"

"She giggled, patted your head, and called you 'adorable'." Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. "And then she handcuffed you to a radiator, stole your car, and drove home. As you can imagine, she has my mind and Sherlock's habits."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "She sounds like quite a woman."

"Indeed." Mycroft nodded sagely. "She often told me and Sherlock that she had only ever met one man who could match her barb-for-barb, and blow-for-blow. So she married him."

"You just come from a whole family of..." Lestrade tried to search for an adequate adjective that could describe them. "... Holmeses."

Mycroft looked at him dryly. "How very perceptive of you, Gregory."

"Oh, come off it, you know what I meant!"

"Indeed I do." Mycroft relented.

"So, what about Daddy Holmes?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"A military man. Died months before Sherlock was born." Mycroft shrugged. "He was stationed overseas during much of my childhood, and I was away at boarding school when he returned, so I don't know much about him."

"Ah, that's sad." Lestrade grimaced. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." Mycroft insisted. "You've done nothing wrong."

Lestrade turned his head and stared out of the window they were sitting behind and looked up at the dark sky. "You know, my mum was a painter." he said.

It was the first time he had mentioned his parents since the incident that had caused his amnesia.

"She, um, I remember coming home from school everyday to watch her sitting outside in the back yard with her oils and easel, painting the next door neighbor's flower garden. On every other Sunday, she'd pack a picnic basket and her art supplies, and we'd all go up to this little hill that overlooked a stream and we'd just stay there, my Mum, Dad, and me, until the stars came out." Lestrade smiled reminiscently.

He looked sad.

"It's very important to you." Mycroft said thoughtfully. "Watching stars."

Lestrade snorted. "Yeah, I guess."

"You taught Sherlock the names of stars, once." Mycroft told him. "Very long ago, when you two were still closer to strangers than friends." Lestrade looked at him and raised his eyebrows and Mycroft continued. "He forgot them by the next morning, it upset you."

"I can imagine." Lestrade huffed softly.

"A month later, you solved a crime that Sherlock couldn't because of the killer's obsession with constellations." Mycroft told him. "That night, Sherlock dragged you to the roof of his flat, pointed at the sky, and said 'talk'."

Lestrade burst out laughing. "What a brat!"

"Yes, well, he's never forgotten them since... despite his habit of deleting the fact that the earth goes around the sun." Mycroft sniffed.

"My God, really?" Lestrade gaped. "He doesn't know?"

"It's never been a fact that stuck with him." Mycroft shrugged. His heart broke ever so slightly when he reminded Lestrade of the fact. Lestrade had always been fond of teasing Sherlock about that.

But, as usual, his facial expression never wavered.

"You know." Lestrade said. "You're doing that thing again."

Mycroft blinked. "To what thing are you referring to?"

"Where your smile never quite reaches your eyes." Lestrade remarked slowly.

Mycroft bit back a clever retort and fidgeted a little with his utensils, staring at the beads of perspiration forming on the outside of his glass. "You always made fun of Sherlock for not knowing the earth goes around the sun." he told Lestrade.

"Ah..." Lestrade nodded his head a little in understanding. His face fell.

"Gregory-..."

"I wish I could remember." Lestrade blurted out before Mycroft could say anything. "I wish my memory would come back, already. I wish I never forgot." He sucked in a shaky breath. "The doctors... they told me not to hold my breath because in a lot of cases, patients never regain the memories they lost."

"You'll get them back." Mycroft said quietly.

"You can't be sure of that." Lestrade said in an even quieter voice. "I mean, what if I don't get better? I won't be able to go back to work at Scotland Yard."

"I'll support you." Mycroft declared firmly.

"And I'm grateful!" Lestrade said, voice hitching slightly. "But I don't want to be a burden like that."

"You won't be." Mycroft told him. "Never."

"And I want to remember. Not just for me, but for you too." Lestrade continued. "And for Sherlock, and John, and everybody else I know, because, let's face the facts: I'm not the only one who is being affected by my memory loss."

"You can hardly help it." Mycroft told him firmly. "And I will not allow anything to cause you more damage. You are more important to us than the sum of your memories."

Lestrade opened his mouth but nothing came out. He closed it and regrouped his thoughts. "You make it very difficult to argue against you, Mycroft." he said finally.

Mycroft tentatively reached across the table and placed his hand gently over Lestrade's. "I know you are frightened, Gregory, anyone in your position should be, and you hide it well." he said. "But please... let's not. Let's not argue over this."

Lestrade forced a thin smile and nodded stiffly before dropping the topic, but Mycroft knew that this issue was far from over.

* * *

It was three hours after Mycroft had agreed to drop Lestrade off at his flat and Lestrade had had a few drinks in by that time.

He was rustling through his storage stuff with drink-clumsy hands, looking at photos, and anything really that could tell him what happened in the twenty years he had lost.

There was a formal photograph of himself in his police uniform at the graduation ceremony with Dimmock and he sat staring at it for a while.

He was younger in the photograph, still had a full head of brown hair, less wrinkles on his face, his smile a little more open than the face he saw in mirrors.

He had just become a full-fledged police officer and he looked damned proud of himself.

Shouldn't he feel something?

"Come on...!" he groaned to himself, pressing his cool drink glass to his temple as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't you remember this? Shouldn't you remember something so important?" he slurred.

"Come on!" He tossed the photograph and watched it slide across the floor in a wild spin before tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. "Strike me with lightning! Where's the fucking _light bulb?_"

With a snarl, he hurled his glass against the wall and made a hole in the plaster, splashing the floor and wall with lukewarm drink. He curled up and sat down, hugging his knees.


	29. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty Eight

Lestrade woke up the next morning dry-mouthed with the hangover from Hell.

_"Ohhh."_ he groaned like a dying man. _"Fuuuck me!"_

He was just glad the curtains were shut... even though he had forgotten to close them the night before. He had also forgotten to drag himself into his bedroom.

Which begged the question: how did he get tucked into bed?

"Oh my God." he grunted around his swollen tongue. "Too early in the morning."

He staggered to his feet and found a glass of water on his nightstand. He lunged at it like a lifeline and guzzled it down before belatedly noticing the painkillers on the nightstand beside it.

He scooped them up and looked at them for a moment. Then, he popped them in his mouth and swallowed them dry since he had already drained his glass of water.

After a few minutes, feeling a little more human, he padded out of his room, making sure to stay close to the wall just in case he decided to fall over or something ridiculous.

He wandered into the bathroom and relieved himself, washed himself up, and wondered why there were dried drops of blood in his shower. He stared and tried to find his rational sense of caution and fear... he failed.

Hangovers could do things to a man.

He shut his shower curtain and decided to pretend the blood wasn't there. Out of sight, out of mind.

In his kitchenette, he found Sherlock and John conversing quietly over tea.

They looked over and noticed him by the door.

"Morning, Greg, you're looking even worse than last night." John told him cheerfully.

"You-... what..." Lestrade croaked, his mind quite unable to wrap around the fact that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were in his flat and drinking tea while there was blood in his shower. "No-... coffee first, yeah." he decided, aborting his pathetic excuse for a question.

John burst out laughing, and at Lestrade's wince, quietened to a gentle titter. "Thought you might be like this." the doctor said and poured him a mug of coffee, straight up black.

Lestrade gulped it down and the change was instantaneous. "Oh, that's better." he sighed in relief. "Mind, I still feel like puking."

Sherlock scoffed. "Only natural, considering the state we found you in."

"Can I ask_ why_ you found me in that state?" Lestrade asked, pouring himself another mug and diluted it with a dash of cream and sugar now that he didn't need the caffeine so desperately. "I didn't think I'd be having guests over."

John shuffled uncomfortably as if someone had suddenly poured a bucketful of fire ants down his trousers and Sherlock looked sheepish.

"Oh God... what did you two do?" Lestrade asked, feeling like he didn't really want to know.

"Oh, you know, just the normal case things." John said.

Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock. "Do you need my first aid kit, police protection, or refuge _from_ the police?" he asked seriously.

"None of the above." Sherlock said.

Lestrade heaved a sigh of relief.

"It was the _blood._" Sherlock continued and Lestrade threw his free hand up into the air in exasperation. "Since that awful business with the harpoon on the Tube, Mrs. Hudson threatened me with eviction if I tracked blood on her lovely carpets again."

"So you decided to come and track blood on _my_ carpets, that's nice, Sherlock." Lestrade grumbled.

"Of course not." Sherlock scoffed. "John would _never_ let me do that. There's an accessible window directly in your bathroom. Mycroft should tighten your security."

Oh, so that's what the blood in his bathroom had been.

"Okay, okay." Lestrade sighed. "But, _whose_ blood are we talking about? I hope it's not either of yours."

Sherlock coughed. "No..."

"Hm, about that..." John said.

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like what you're going to say next?" Lestrade said dryly.

"I have it on good authority that you're going to _hate_ it." Sherlock told him. "We stumbled on a gang war. On accident. It's one of theirs... and I swear to God that neither I nor John have done anything to spill blood. We just stumbled on them."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!"

"And then John tried to save one of them. His friends turned the corner just in time to make it look like we did him in." Sherlock added on absently.

"We're going to have to lie low for a bit." John grimaced loudly over his flatmate's report.

"We were thinking of going out and visiting Mummy." Sherlock said. "You, being our main contact in the Yard, may also be threatened, so we're kidnapping you."

He made the crime sound like a pleasant walk in the park.

"You're going to kidnap me." Lestrade repeated dubiously and took a nice long sip of coffee, inwardly praying for strength. This was all too much for him and his hangover.

"I have some rope and duct tape." Sherlock blinked innocently. "Or, we can just throw you in the boot of Mycroft's car, if you want to make things really difficult."

"Wait,_ Mycroft's_ in on this?" Lestrade exclaimed, incredulous.

"He's the one who wants you to avoid danger the most." John chimed in. "In fact, it was _his_ idea to go visit Mummy Holmes."

"Oh Christ, of course it was...!" Lestrade sighed. "I don't stand a chance, do I?"

Sherlock pranced over and practically linked their arms as he hustled Lestrade out of the flat. "Do you even have to ask?"

It took Lestrade a moment for everything to register as he stumbled down the front steps in his pyjamas and soft slippers.

"... Wait, we're going _now?_"

* * *

Five minutes later, Lestrade sat in the back of Mycroft's car in drawstring sweatpants, T-shirt, and inside slippers. He tried to cross his arms, realized that he still had his coffee mug in his hand, and sulked.

"I can't bloody believe this."

Mycroft looked over at him in his immaculate suit, looking positively scrubbed up to see the Queen. "We can get you a new change of clothes, Gregory." he assured him.

"You kidnapped me." Lestrade pouted accusingly.

"No, Sherlock did. _I_ am simply going to visit Mummy." Mycroft smiled infuriatingly. "It's just good fortune that we seem to be going in the same direction at the same time."

"I hate you." Lestrade said with feeling.

"Maybe we should've lugged you out while you were still suffering from drink-coma." Mycroft mused.

"And then I'd have woken up in a moving vehicle and puked in your lap." Lestrade shot back. "And then I'd die of extreme vomiting. Mind, I think I ate skittles last night so I might still have the opportunity to puke a rainbow on you. Something to look forward to."

"Don't be so dramatic." Mycroft tutted.

"_Your face_ is dramatic." Lestrade grumbled back childishly, lightly kicking his shin with a slippered foot.

Mycroft just smiled at him indulgently and they continued their journey in comfortable silence.


End file.
